960 
R32.49 

I9Z2 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3Me    EflE 


DEAR  ME 

By  LUTHER  REED  and  HALE  HAMILTON 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  Seth  St,  New  York 


Golden  Days 


A  comedy  of  youth,  in  four  acts,  by  Sidney  Toler  and 
Marion  Short  7  males,  10  females.  Three  interior 
scenes.     Costumes   modern.     Plays   2^   hours. 

"Golden  Days"  is  a  play  with  all  the  charm  of  youth. 
It  enjoyed  a  run  of  sixteen  weeks  in  Chicago  with 
Patricia  Collingre  in  the  leading:  role,  and  was  then 
brought  to  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  New  York,  with  Helen 
Kayes  in  the  part  of  "Mary  Anne."  Price,  75  cents. 

Come  Out  of  the  Kitchen 

A  charming  comedy  in  3  acts,  adapted  by  A.  E.  Thomas 
from  the  story  of  the  same  name  by  Alice  Duer  Miller.  6 
males,  5  females.  Three  interior  scenes.  Costumes, 
modern.     Plays   2%    hours. 

"Come  Out  of  the  Kitchen,"  with  Ruth  Chatterton  in 
the  leading  role,  made  a  notable  success  on  its  produc- 
tion by  Henry  Miller  at  the  Cohan  Theatre,  New  York, 
rt  was  also  a  great  success  at  the  Strand  Theatre,  Lrf>n- 
don.  A  most  ingenious  and  entertaining  comedy,  and 
we  strongly  recommend   it  for  amateur  production. 

Price.   75    cents 

His  Majesty  Bunker  Bean 

A  farcical  comedy  In  four  acts.  By  Lee  Wilson  Dodd, 
from  the  novel  by  Harry  Leon  Wilson.  .  12  male-s,  6 
females.  Four  interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays 
2%  hours.  Those  who  have  laughed  immoderately  at 
Harry  Leon  Wilson's  story  will  be  greatly  amused  by 
the  play,  which  tells  the  story  of  a  cowed  and  cred- 
ulous youth  w+iio  became  kingly  when  he  was  tricked 
into  believing  himself  a  reincarnation  of  Napoleon.  "His 
Majesty  Bunker  Bean,"  with  Taylor  Holmes  in  the  title 
role,  was  brought  to  the  Astor  Theatre,  New  York, 
after  a  run  of  25  weeks  in  Chicago.  A  delightful  and 
wholesome   farce   comedy   with   no   dull   moments. 

Price,    75    cents 


A  Full  House 


A  farcical  comedy  in  three  acts.  By  Fred  Jackson. 
7  males,  7  females.  One  interior  scene.  Modern  cos- 
tumes. Plays  2%  hours.  This  newest  and  funniest  of 
all  farces  was  written  by  Fred  Jackson,  the  well-known 
.short  story  writer,  and  is  backed  up  by  the  prestige 
of  an  impressive  New  York  success  and  the  promise  of 
unlimited  fun  presented  in  the  most  attractive  form. 
A  cleverer  farce  has  not  been  seen  for  many  a  long 
day.     "A  Full  House"   is  a  house  full  of  laughs 

Price,   75   cents 

(The  AboY«  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

fetAMUEIi  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street.  New  York  City 

New  «nd  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalo^i^rue  Mailed 

Free   on    Request 


DEAR  ME 

(or  APRIL  CHANGES) 


AN  OPTIMISTIC  COMEDY 
IN  THREE  ACTS 


BY 
LUTHER  REED  and  HALE  HAMILTON 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Luther  Reed  &  Hale  Hamilton 

G)PYRIGHT,   1922,  BY  LUTHER  ReED  &  HaLE  HAMILTON 


All  Rights  Reserved 

lUTION  :  Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned 
that  "DEAR  ME,"  being  fully  protected  under  the  copy- 
right laws  of  the  United  States,  Great  Britain  and  Can- 
ada, is  subject  to  a  royalty,  and  anyone  presenting  the 
play  without  the  consent  of  the  owners  or  their  author- 
ized agents  will  be  liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  pro- 
vided. The  amateur  acting  rights  of  this  play  are  strictly 
reserved  and  amateur  performances  may  not  be  given 
anywhere  without  permission  first  having  been  obtained 
in  writing  from  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street, 
New  York  City.  For  professional  productions  write  to 
John  Golden,  139  West  44th  Street,  New  York  City.  All 
unauthorized  performances  will  be  prosecuted. 


New  York 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Pubusher 

58-30  West  38th  Street 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street 

STRAND 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of 
this  book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first 
having  been  obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right 
or  license  to  professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play 
publicly  or  in  private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  produc- 
tion, recitation,  or  public  reading  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th 
Street,  New  York. 

This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment 
of  a  royalty  of  Twenty-Five  Dollars  for  each  perform- 
ance, payable  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  Street, 
New  York^  one  week  before  the  date  when  the  play  is 
given. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the 
play:  "Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel 
French  of  New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for 
any  infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows: 

"Section  4966 : — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
resenting any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the 
proprietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  compositions,  or  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof, 
such  damages,  in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not 
less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dol- 
lars for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the  court 
shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  v^ilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or 
persons  shall  be^  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  con-  , 
viction  shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  i 
year."-— U.  S.  Revised  Statutes:   Title  60,  Chap.  3.  ' 


R33L-H 


JOHN  GOLDEN  <M^(U 

presents  i  A  ji  a 

Grace  LaRue  and  Hale  Hamilton  l^ASi 

in 
"DEAR  ME" 
(or  April  Changes) 
AN  OPTIMISTIC  COMEDY 
by 
LUTHER  REED  and  HALE  HAMILTON 
As  presented  at  the  Republic  Theatre,  New  York, 
January  17,  1921 

April  Blair Grace  LaRue 

Anthony  Turner James  G.  Morton 

Edgar  Craig   Hale  Hamilton 

Herbert  Lawton  George  N.  Price 

Manny  Siebold   Robert  Lowe 

Clarence T.  Kodama 

Dudley   Quail    '. Baker  Moore 

Maid   Eula  Guy 

Wilbur  Oglevie  /.  K.  Hutchinson 

Shelly  Willis  Albert  Mattison 

Robert  Jackson George  Spelvin 

Gordon  Peck   Mart  E.  Heisey 

Joseph  Renard   Robert  Fischer 

Mrs.  Carney  Camilla  Crume 

SYNOPSIS 

Act.     I — The  Amos  Prentice  Home  for  Artistic  and  Lit- 
erary Failures. 
Act  II — Home  of  Craig  and  Renard  in  New  York  City, 

one  year  later. 
Act  III — Scene  1 — April's  Dressing-room. 

Scene  2 — Prentice's  Apartment,  New  York  City. 

Accompanist  to  Miss  LaRue,  Joseph  M.  Daily. 

Kimball   Piano   Used. 

Staged  by  Hale  Hamilton. 

Gowns  Worn  by  Miss  LaRue  from  Harry  Collins. 

Production  Designed  by  Wade  Douglas. 

Scenery   constructed   by    the    Vail    Construction    Co.    and 

painted  by  the  Physioc  Studios,  New  York. 

EXECUTIVE  STAFF  FOR  JOHN  GOLDEN 

A.   H.   Canby Manager 

P.  E.  McCoy General  Stage  Director 

Mart  E.  Heisey  Stage  Manager 

3 


fl    360 


CHARACTERS 

(In  the  order  of  which  they  speak) 

Wilbur  Oglevie 
Shelly  Willis 
Robert  Jackson 
Gordon  Peck 
Joseph  Renard 
Mrs.  Carney 
April  Blair 
Anthony  Turner 
Edgar  Craig 
Herbert  Lawton 
Manny  Bean 
Clarence 
Dudley  Quail 
Maid 

SYNOPSIS 

Act      I — The  Amos  Prentice  Home  for  Artistic 

and  Literary  Failures. 
Act     II — Home   of   Craig  and   Renard   in  New 

York  City,  one  year  later. 
Act  III — Scene  i — April^s  dressing-room. 

Scene    2 — Prentice's    apartment,    New 

York  City, 


DEAR  ME 


ACT   I 


//  you  walk  four  miles  out  the  main  road  from  a 
nameless  but  characteristic  little  New  York 
State  town,  you  will  come  to  something  that 
looks  like  a  mediocre  farm.  But  it  isn't  a  farm 
at  all,  as  closer  inspection  will  reveal.  There  is 
no  thriftness  whatsoever  about  the  fields,  and 
what  is  left  of  the  orchards  fails  utterly  to  com- 
mand respect.  The  house  seems  to  be  on  the 
verge  of  final  decay  also. 

This  feeling  does  not  come  so  much  from  the  physi- 
cal aspect  of  the  place,  which  is  fairly  fit,  but 
from  the  atmosphere.  If  one  were  a  failure,  it 
would  be  a  zvonderful  place  to  spend  the  remain- 
ing days.  It  gives  that  sort  of  a  feeling  be- 
cause— it  is  that  sort  of  a  place. 

A  closer  inspection  of  the  tarnished  brass  plate  at 
the  gate  post  reveals  this  legend: 

THE  PRENTICE  HOME  FOR  LITERARY 
AND  ARTISTIC  FAILURES. 

and  there  is  no  'Welcome"  written  below  to  add 
an  ironical  touch. 
Nor  is  there  any  welcome  in  the  large  downstairs 
room  of  the  house  which  s$rves  for  library, 
5 


6  DEAR   ME 

limng  and  dining-room  to  the  unfortunate  in- 
mates of  the  Home. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  this  room  is  serving  as  the  din- 
ing-room, and  even  the  soft  Spring  air  and  the 
slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun  cannot  brighten 
up  the  chill  of  the  room.  Nor  does  this  lustrous 
moment  of  the  late  May  evening  seem  to  cheer 
the  elderly  wrecks  who  are  stuffing  themselves 
with  food  which  is  equally  meager  in  quality  and 
quantity. 

Around  the  table  sit — we  shall  begin  with  the  plump- 
est one,  who  is  by  the  same  token  the  noisiest — 
Oglevie,  Willis,  Lawton,  Turner,  Peck  and 
Manny  Bean,  who  they  are  and  what  they  have 
been  is  not  to  be  explained  here,  for  they  do 
that  themselves  in  their  own  manner. 

But  something  of  the  room.  If  we  entered  from  the 
yard,  we  would  come  in  through  a  large  window, 
just  outside  of  which  sits  a  measly  box  of 
struggling  geraniums.  Standing  there  and  look- 
ing across  the  room,  we  would  see,  on  our  left, 
a  fireplace,  in  which  no  fire  has  ever  burned. 
Over  the  mantelpiece,  a  picture  of  a  benign  old 
gentleman  about  whom  is  every  aspect  of  suc- 
cess. Further  on,  past  the  fireplace,  a  swing 
door  leads  to  the  kitchen.  On  the  opposite  wall 
an  old-fashioned  sideboard  leaning  heavily  be- 
tween the  corner  and  the  stairway  that  creaks 
nightly  under  the  weight  of  the  old  gentlemen 
going  to  bed. 

On  our  right  is  a  newspaper  rack,  loaded  with  char- 
ity newspapers,  which  means  that  none  bears  a 
date  later  than  a  month  ago. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  is  the  table,  loaded  with 
heavy  crockery  that  is  light  in  food.  The  chairs, 
as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  furniture,  are  of  the 
''horsehair^'  period. 


J 


DEAR   ME  7 

When  the  sun  has  ceased  to  illumine,  the  Prentice 
Home  depends  on  gas. 

The  "inmates'^  for  they  even  refer  to  themselves  as 
that,  eat  without  lost  motion  or  conversation — 
then  one  of  their  number,  one  who  is  usually 
palid  and  frail,  coughs.  His  companions  glare 
relentlessly  and  take  no  notice  of  the  look  of 
apology  he  gives.  Especially  resentful  is 
Oglevie.  But  it  is  no  use.  Lawton  coughs 
again  and  this  precipitates  us  into  the  beginning 
of  our  play,  for  Oglevie  dashes  his  napkin 
down  among  the  rick-ribbed  crockery  and  rises, 
stuttering  in  his  anger.    And  he  says: 

Oglevie.  Gentlemen,  I  rise  to  ask:  Is  this  a 
home  for  failures  or  a  sanitarium? 

Peck.  Now,  be  reasonable,  old  man;  he  can't 
help  it. 

Oglevie.  And  I  can't  help  listening.  As  the  one 
real  failure  among  you,  I  ask  you:  do  I  have  to 
stand  that? 

Lawton.    I  beg  your  pardon — I'm  sorry! 

Oglevie.     (Sits)    Well,  then,  all  right! 

(Lawton  coughs  again,  and  Oglevie  begins  to  froth 
and  boil,  but  Turner  and  Peck  quiet  him  down, 
and  they  begin  to  eat  again.  Renard  enters  r. 
with  his  old  violin,  same  being  wrapped  in  an 
old  piece  of  flannel.  He  stops  in  doorway,  looks 
at  the  diners,  and  bows  slightly,) 

Renard.    Gentlemen 


Peck.    Where  have  you  been? 
Renard.    I  didn't  know  I  was  late. 
Bean.    Supper's  most  over! 
Lawton.     Mrs.  Carney  thought  something  had 
happened  to  you. 

Renard.    Really  ?    Well,  something  has ! 


8  DEAR   ME 

Several.    Yes?    What  is  it?    Tell  us,  etc. 

Renard.  (Pauses  slowly)  You  would  not  find 
it  interesting.  (Goes  up  to  put  his  fiddle  on  the 
mantel,) 

Oglevie.  Ha!  He's  been  taking  his  fiddle  out 
for  an  airing! 

Renard.  (Turning  quickly)  You  are  right,  sir. 
I  try  my  violin  to-day  for  the  first  time  since — since 
I  come  here. 

Bean.     (Great  interest)    You  can  play  again? 

Renard.  (Shakes  head)  No,  but  scrape  a  little — 
more  than  I  ever  thought  I'd  be  able  to  do ! 

Peck.    Well,  say!    That's  wonderful! 

Renard.  (Sitting)  Yes,  and  it  would  never  have 
been  but  for  April — what  I  owe  to  that  dear  child ! 

Oglevie.  Ha,  dear  child !  If  the  dear  child  would 
look  after  waiting  on  table  and  not- 


Peck.     And  pay  a  little  attention 

Renard.     (Quickly)     Sh — ^h 

Lawton.    Mrs.  Carney ! 

(Mrs.  Carney  enters.  She  is  a  pompous,  aggressive 
matron,  who  is  always  annoyed,  and  from  the 
standpoint  of  'failures/'  is  probably  more  eligi- 
hh  for  the  Home,  of  which  she  is  the  resident 
manager,  than  any  of  the  inmates.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Com^s  down  to  the  table,  gives  a 
quick  glance  about)    Everything  all  right? 

Oglevie.  (Rises,  swells  up,  as  he  puts  down  his 
napkin)    I  thought  I  might  suggest  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Carney.     Is  everything  all  right? 

Oglevie.  (As  he  subsides,  crestfallen)  Perfect- 
ly!   Except  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Carney.    Except  what? 

Oglevie.    Except — we  have  no  one  to  wait  on  us ! 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Looking  around)  Where's 
April? 


55i 


CO 


< 

Q 


DEAR   ME  9 

Oglevie.  (Looking  at  Renard  sarcastically) 
The  ''dear  child"  hasn't  honored  us  with  her  pres- 
ence since  we  sat  down. 

Mrs.  Carney.     (Angry)     What? 

Bean.  (Excusing  her)  She's  looking  out  for  our 
new  arrival,  I  think. 

Mrs.  Carney.    The  new  man — ^is  here? 

Bean.  Yes,  he  came  while  we  were  all  out  on 
our  walk.     No  one's  seen  him  except  April. 

Lawton.  She  said  something  about  serving  his 
supper  in  his  room. 

Mrs.  Carney.  Supper  in  his  room?  We'll  see 
about  supper  in  his  room  mighty  quick !  (Starts  out 
toward  the  kitchen.) 

(April  enters  with  tray.  The  door  closes  after  her. 
As  she  gets  to  second  step  down  l.,  Mrs.  Car- 
ney speaks  very  sharply.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Where  are  you  going  with  that 
tray? 

April.  The  new  gentleman's  supper;  I  said  I'd 
take  it  up  to  him. 

Mrs.  Carney.  Oh,  you  did!  Put  that  tray 
down! 

(April  goes  up  l.  and  puts  down  tray,) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Now  you  attend  to  this  table — do 
you  hear? 

(April  looks  at  table  a  minute;  then  goes  l.,  gets 
water-pitcher,  fills  Peck-'s  and  Bean's  glasses, 
then  puts  water-pitcher  on  table  up  l.,  and  then 
lights  two  lamps.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Goes  to  stairs  and  calls)  Mr. 
Crmg!    You  will  kindly  come  down  to  the  dining- 


lo  DEAR   ME 

room  at  once!  (Turns  on  April. J  Put  his  supper 
over  there !  (Turns  to  men,  and,  without  more  than 
taking  breath)  And  I  hope,  gentlemen,  that  having 
failed  at  everything  else,  you  will  try  to  succeed  at 
being  polite  and  considerate  to  the  new  guest! 
(Exits  into  kitchen.) 

(April  gets  chair,  and  makes  a  place  at  end  of  table 
for  Craig;  bus.  with  tray,  etc.) 

Oglevie.  Anyway,  gentlemen,  we  have  one  thing 
to  be  thankful  for — this  Home  does  not  admit  lady 
failures. 

Bean.    Women  never  admit  their  failures ! 

Oglevie.  You  are  right  there,  Manny;  when  a 
woman  doesn't  get  everything  she  wants,  she  just 
reaches  out — ^grabs  one  of  the  struggling  male  specie, 
and  like  the  coward  she  is,  marries  him,  and  he  has 
a  Home  for  little  failures  of  his  own  to  support. 
(Sees  April. J    /  want  my  coffee! 

(Mrs.  Carney  enters.) 

Mrs.  Carney.    What  do  you  want? 

April.     Coffee ! 

Oglevie.  (To  Mrs.  Carney  J  If  it  isn't  too 
much  trouble ! 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Glares  at  him)  Get  this  old  man 
his  coffee — and  be  quick  about  it ! 

(April  exits  with  Oglevie's  cup  up  l.  Enter  Craig. 
He  stops  on  stairs.  Mrs.  Carney  turns  and 
looks  at  him  angrily;  she  is  surprised  at  his 
youthful  appearance  and  stands  taking  him  in 
curiously.  Those  at  the  table  look  at  him  with 
interest.) 


DEAR   ME  II 

Craig.  (Looks  at  Mrs.  Carney  with  a  half- 
smile)    Mrs.  Carney? 

Mrs.  Carney.     I  am  Mrs.  Carney — ^yes! 

Craig.    You — er — ^you  sent  for  me? 

Mrs.  Carney.  No — I  called  for  you.  (The  men 
at  the  table  laugh  at  this  remark,) 

Craig.     I  see. 

Mrs.  Carney.  You  are  half  an  hour  late  for 
supper,  Mr.  Craig;  the  others  have  nearly  finished. 

Craig.  I'm  sorry — I  expected  to (Points  up- 
stairs.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Meals  here  are  served  in  the  din- 
ing-room, except  in  cases  of  illness. 

Craig.    I  see. 

Mrs.  Carney.    You  are  not  ill,  I  trust? 

Craig.    No,  thanks — not  particularly ! 

Mrs.  Carney.    I'll  trouble  you  for  your  card ! 

Craig.  (Feeling  in  various  pockets)  I  fear  I 
haven't  one  with  me. 

Mrs.  Carney.    You  should  have! 

Craig.    Oh,  should  I? 

Mrs.  Carney.  Each  failure  is  given  a  card — 
when  the  Trustees  have  decided  that  he  is  worthy 
of  admission 

Craig.  Oh,  that  card?  I  didn't  understand. 
(Takes  card  from  pocket.)    Allow  me ! 

Mrs.  Carney.    (Taking  card  from  him)    Thanks ! 

(Oglevie  puts  on  his  glasses,  turns  in  chair  and 
tries  to  see  what  is  written  on  card.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Reads)  "Edgar  Craig,  born  New 
York  City,  1882.  Six  feet;  one  hundred  and  seven- 
ty-nine ;  light  brown ;  failed  at "    (Looks  dozm- 

ward — pushes  card  under  Oglevie^s  nose — he  turri^ 
sheepishly  and  starts  eating.)  "Signed:  James  B. 
Smythe,  Secretary."    It  seems  to  be  all  right.    Wei- 


12  DEAR   ME 

comi  to  the  Home!  Your  place  at  the  table  is  there. 
(Points  to  end  of  table.) 

Craig.     (Interrupting)    Do  I  have  a  number? 

Mrs.  Carney.  This  is  Mr.  Oglevie ;  he  will  make 
you  acquainted  with  the  other  old  men!  (Sweeps 
out  of  the  room,  up  the  stairs,) 

Oglevie.  (Looking  after  Mrs.  Carney;  rises) 
As  the  senior  resident  here,  Mr.  Craig,  it  is  my  cus- 
tom, upon  welcoming  a  new  guest,  to  first  introduce 
him  to  that  glorious  old  gentleman!  (Goes  up  c.) 
— the  founder  of  this  Home — Amos  Prentice! 

(Craig  starts  to  sit,  but  rises  as  Oglevie  starts  to 
talk;  again  takes  piece  of  bread  with  him,) 

Oglevie.  His  son,  Edgar  Prentice,  went  to  Paris 
to  study  Art,  but  failed  and  vanished.  The  old 
gentleman  never  heard  from  him  again,  and  died, 
leaving  this  memorial  to  his  son  as  a  haven  for  others 
who  had  failed  in  the  artistic  and  literary  world. 
They — (Craig  sits,) — ^have  placed  here,  beneath  the 
portrait,  a  tablet.  (Goes  up  to  mantel  at  back.)  If 
you  please,  Mr.  Craig! 

Craig.  (Rises,  goes  up  to  mantel  at  back,  reads) 
"In  memory  of  my  son :  No  man  who  ever  tried  is  a 
failure  in  his  own  heart,  and  to  such  men  belong  a 
better  fate  than  my  son  suffered." 

Oglevie.    I  should  like  to  further  explain 

Craig.  Thank  you,  but  Mr.  Smythe  explained 
everything  to  me  thoroughly.     (Comes  down  to  L.j 

Oglevie.  Oh  .  .  .  (Comes  down  to  l.  end  of 
table)  Then  let  me  present  Mr.  Willis,  who  was  a 
very  successful  sign  painter,  but  failed  after  a  dis- 
astrous career  as  a 

Willis.    A  portraiteur! 

Oglevie.  One  who  paints  portraits,  but  does  not 
necessarily  sell  them.  And  Mr.  Turner,  who  has 
several  trunks   full  of  unpublished  manuscript*^ 


DEAR   ME  13 

his  sole  legacy  to  the  world!  (Turner  rises  and 
bows,)  Mr.  Lawton — ^but  Mr.  Lawton  can  best  ex- 
plain himself ! 

Lawton.  (Rises)  Have  you  ever  been  in  Reli- 
ance, Ohio,  Mr.  Craig? 

Craig.    That  is  a  pleasure  so  far  denied  me ! 

Lawton.  In  a  remote  park  stands  my  one  and 
only  statue.  I  felt  convinced  that  it  was  a  genuine 
work  of  art,  but  the  Committee  on  City  Decorations 
disagreed  with  me — ^and 

Oglevie.  It  was  upon  their  recommendation  that 
he  obtained  admission  to  this  Home. 

Lawton.  But,  Mr.  Craig,  my  heart  is  buried  in 
that  statue ! 

Oglevie.  This  is  Mr.  Peck.  Mr.  Peck  is  not  a 
failure  in  any  special  line — he  has  failed  success- 
fully at  everything. 

Peck.     (Rises)    I  am  an  architect,  Mr.  Craig;  it 

is  the  greatest  art  of  them  all (Movement  from 

others,) 

Oglevie.  (Interrupting)  All  the  arts  are  repre- 
sented among  us,  even  the  theatre.     Here  we  have 

I      Mr.  Manny  Bean 

^  Bean.     (Rises)     Who  built  a  little  theatre  for 

artistic  and  literary  plays;  you  know,  high-brow 
stuff.  I  thought  I  knew  more  about  what  the  public 
wanted  than  they  did  themselves;  you  see,  I  was 
mistaken.  (He  hows  to  Oglevie,  who  takes  up  the 
conversation,) 

Oglevie.    And  Joseph  Renard 

Renard.  No,  never  mind — please!  (Rises.) 
Some  day  I  tell  Mr.  Craig.  (Pulls  out  chair  at  R. 
end  of  table.) 

Oglevie.  As  you  please.  (Comes  down  to  l.  end 
of  table.)  And  now  my  most  painful  duty — ^to  ex- 
plain myself!  (Very  pompous.)  I  was  a  poet,  Mr. 
Craig— a  writer  of  verse — and  I  failed.  But  it  was 
not  that  which  brought  me  among  these  derelicts: 


14  DEAR   ME 

my  failure,  I  might  say  my  colossal  failure,  was — 
matrimony!  I  married  a  woman  for  her  money  and 
never  got  a  cent! 

(Enter  April  u.l.  with  tray  and  six  cups  of  coffee; 
puts  tray  on  table  at  back  and  hurries  to  Ogle- 
vie^  giving* him  his  cup,) 

Oglevie.  (Goes  up  l.  of  April)  Ah !  One  mo- 
ment! Just  one  more  introduction,  Mr.  Craig,  be- 
fore I've  finished.     You  now  have  before  you  the 

Home's  most  magnificent  failure (Holds  up 

cup,)  The  coffee!  (Sips  the  coffee,)  My  God! 
This  stuff  is  not  coffee — it's  mud! 

April.  I'll  get  you  another  cup  if  it  will  keep 
you  quiet ! 

Oglevie.    And  bring  a  saucer. 

April.  Try  drinking  it  out  of  the  cup  once! 
(Exits  with  cup.  All  laugh,  Craig  laughing  first 
and  loudest.) 

Oglevie.    When  I  go  raving  mad,  thank  her! 

Renard.  (Sincerely)  We  should  all  thank  her, 
Mr.  Oglevie — thank  her  every  day  of  our  lives — ^not 
one  of  us  but  is  made  more  comfortable  and  con- 
tented here  by  her  thought  and  consideration! 

Oglevie.  Thank  her?  For  her  incompetency — 
her  impertinence?  (All  except  Bean,  Craig  and 
Renard  agree  with  Oglevie  ;  they  say,  ^'He's  right'' 
— ''She  is  fresh'' — ''Yes,  and  lazy,  too,"  etc.  Con- 
tinuing) Let  me  warn  you,  Mr.  Craig,  never  allow 
that  girl  to  become  familiar;  keep  her  in  her  place 
or  she'll  make  your  life  miserable. 

Craig.  No,  she  won't.  Mr.  Oglevie,  I've  done 
that  for  myself.  And  might  I  ask  how  many  serv- 
ants do  we  have  in  our  little  home  ? 

Renard.    She  is  the  only  one,  Mr.  Craig. 

Craig.     What!    To  do  everything? 

Renard,     Everything!     Mrs.  Carney — ^she  only 


DEAR   ME  15 

gives  orders ;  April — she  do  it  all ;  she  works  like  a 
slave,  and  she  gets  nothing  for  it — nothing  but 
abuse! 

Craig.  Well,  what  does  she  do  it  for?  Why 
does  she  stand  it? 

Renard.  Her  father  died  here,  Mr.  Craig;  he 
had  been  a  great  thinker — a  philosopher.  When  he 
was  old  and  broken  he  was  taken  into  this  Home, 
and  April  allowed  to  come  with  him;  and  for  that 
she  thinks  she  owes  them  a  great  debt ! 

(Enter  April.  ^ 

Craig.    Oh,  I  see. 

April.  (Has  a  cup  of  coffee;  she  takes  it  to 
Oglevie.^  I  have  plenty  of  fresh  coflfee  now! 
(Giving  him  small  milk  pitcher.)  Would  you  like 
another  cup,  Joe?  (Above  the  table,  hooking  about, 
takes  Peck's  plate  up.) 

Renard.     No,  no,  thank  you! 

(April  catches  sight  of  Craig,  who  is  looking  at  her 
intently.  She  pauses,  keeping  her  eyes  on  his, 
then  speaks  a  little  shyly.) 

April.     Would  you,  sir  ? 

Craig.    No — ^this  is  fine,  thank  you ! 

April.  (Goes  above  him  to  newspaper  rack, 
speaks  as  she  goes  in  rather  low  tone,)  I'm  sorry 
I  couldn't  bring  your  supper  up. 

Craig.  I'm  glad  you  couldn't.  I'd  never  have 
suggested  it  if  I'd  known  how  much  you  had  to  do ! 

(April,  whose  back  is  to  Craig,  turns  with  surprise 
and  looks  at  him — is  about  to  speak — doesn't — 
smiles  at  him  and  turns  back  to  paper  file — no 
suggestion  of  flirting  in  the  smile,) 


i6  DEAR   ME 

Craig.  (After  she's  turned  away)  Have  you  had 
your  supper  yet? 

April.    Oh,  I  don't (Turns  to  reply,) 

Lawton.  (Breaks  in — loud  voice)  See  here, 
April,  why  the  deuce  do  you 

Craig.  Why  the  deuce  do  you  interrupt  when 
we're  talking,  Mr.  Reliance  ?  y 

Lawton.  My  name^is  Lawton — Reliance  is  the 
place  where  my  statue  is  standing. 

Renard.  (To  Lawtonj  Mr.  Craig  is  right — 
you  should  never  interrupt  a  man  when  he  is  talking 
to  a  young  lady — especially  if  she  is  a  pretty  young 
lady! 

Lawton.    April — ^pretty?    Good  Heavens! 

Renard.    You  do  not  think  she  is  pretty? 

Lawton.    No  ! 

Craig.  (Looking  at  Lawton  J  Now  I  know  your 
statue  is  rotten!  (Bean  and  Renard  laugh.  The 
others  resent  Craig's  words.) 

Renard.     (Laughing)    Good,  Mr.  Craig! 

Lawton.  I  heard  her  again  yesterday  talking  to 
you,  Renard. 

Oglevie.  Yes — Renard — she's  always  talking  to 
you! 

Turner.  "You're  wonderful,"  she  told  him — 
"wonderful" — and  "Oh,  how  I  wish  you  and  I  were 
out  there  in  the  free,  fighting  world." 

Oglevie.  Ha!  ha!  The  world!  As  if  the  world 
wouldn't  gobble  her  up  in  an  instant.  The  world 
that  has  crushed  such  spirits  as  ours,  gentlemen! 

Craig.    Well,  at  least,  she  isn't  crushed  yet! 

Oglevie.     I  don't  get  your  meaning,  Mr.  Craig! 

Craig.  I  mean  Miss  April  isn't  here  because  she 
is  a  failure.  We've  had  our  chance ;  her  little  cam- 
paign against  those  millions  out  there  hasn't  even 
started ! 

Renard.  Bravo!  I  like  such  talk.  Like  to  fill 
my  lungs  with  it— like  the  fresh  air.    Why  can't  you 


DEAR   ME  17 

all  have  a  little  consideration?  Think — ^think  what 
she  has  to  do! 

Oglevie.  Has  to  do?  Look!  (Points  to  April. 
All  turn  and  see  April  going  up  stage,  carrying  her 
box  of  geraniums;  she  is  evidently  on  her  way  to 
the  kitchen.) 

Peck.    Ha !    Her  geraniums !    (All  laugh,) 

(April  puts  the  geraniums  on  top  of  tray  up  l.,  gets 
water  from  l.  and  waters  them,.) 

Oglevie.  Exactly — ^geraniums !  The  all-important 
task  of  her  life  is  to  bother  and  fuss  with  those 
damned  geraniums! 

Craig.  (Rising)  If  the  latest  failure  to  be  added 
to  this  little  delightful  circle  may  be  permitted  to 
express  his  opinion  .  .  . 

April.  Please,  Mr.  Craig!  I  don't  mind  what 
they  say. 

Craig.    Oh ! 

Renard.  April  is  right,  Mr.  Craig ;  you  will  soon 
learn  that  it  is  useless  to  waste  your  temper  on  these 
remnants ! 

Oglevie.  (Ignoring  Renard^  You  were  about 
to  offer  an  opinion,  Mr.  Craig? 

Craig.  Well,  I  was  going  to  say  that  it's  always 
been  my  opinion  that  the  lowest  form  of  failure  was 
the  man  who  tried  to  be  a  gentleman  and  didn't 
succeed.  But  I've  found  there's  one  variety  lower 
— and  that's  the  man  who  doesn't  even  try !  (April 
serves  Renard  and  Craig  dessert.)  April,  would 
you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  Mrs.  Carney  that  I'd 
like  to  see  her  a  moment,  if  it's  convenient. 

April.  Why,  yes,  sir,  certainly.  (She  goes  up- 
stairs. There  is  an  ominous  silence  for  a  second. 
Oglevie  appears  about  to  speak,  when  Craig  bright- 
ly proceeds.) 

Craig.     Now  that  we  are  alone,  gentlemen  .  .  , 


i8  DEAR   ME 

(Takes  out  envelope,)  I  have  here  a  letter  that  the 
Trustees  asked  me  to  deliver  to  you. 

Oglevie.    a  letter  for  us? 

Craig.  I  understood  it  was  in  answer  to  a  "round 
robin"  that  you  gentlemen  had  sent  to  the  Trustees, 
complaining  of  Mrs,  Carney  and  her  supervision  of 
the  Home. 

All.  Oh,  our  round  robin !  The  answer  is  here, 
at  least !    What  does  it  say,  etc. 

Oglevie.    I  wrote  the  round  robin,  Mr.  Craig ! 

Peck.    And  we  all  signed  it. 

Renard.  No,  not  all — I  did  not  sign  it !  I  have 
no  complaint.  For  every  mouthful  of  food,  for  this 
roof  over  me  and  my  violin,  I  am  grateful  to  that 
old  man.    (He  gets  his  hat  and  fiddle.) 

Craig.    You  don't  care  to  hear  this  letter,  then? 

Renard.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,  Mr.  Craig. 
And  I  must  go  to  the  Post  Office — it  is  most  impor- 
tant— April  expects  a  letter.  (Looks  at  others  in 
disgust,) 

Oglevie.    But  Joe!    Joe! 

Renard.  Oh,  you  meddlers — ^you  with  your  let- 
ters and  your  complaints !    (Exits,) 

Oglevie.  You  may  give  me  the  letter,  Mr.  Craig. 
May  I  ask  what  you  are  waiting  for? 

Craig.  (Sweetly)  For  Mrs.  Carney !  (All  show 
fear  and  rise  from  table.) 

Oglevie.  Mrs.  Carney !  Good  Heavens !  You're 
not  going  to  show  that  letter  to  her? 

Craig.  (Still  sweetly)  Oh,  yes.  When  the  Trus- 
tees gave  me  my  credentials,  they  told  me  to  deliver 
this  reply  and  wished  it  read  to  you  in  Mrs.  Carney's 
presence. 

Lawton.    I  think  I'll  go  to  the  Post  Office  too ! 

Peck.    I'll  go  with  you. 

Oglevie.    Wait — we'll  all  go ! 


DEAR   ME  19 

(Mrs.  Carney  enters  from  stairs;  wears  hat  and 
coat;  carries  umbrella.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Well!  (They  all  stop.)  What's 
wrong  now? 

Craig.  I  have  here  a  letter  from  the  Trustees, 
which  they  thought  might  interest  you. 

(April  enters  from  stairs,  stops  and  stands  listen- 
ing.) 

Craig.  (Reads  letter)  "Gentlemen  of  the  Pren- 
tice Home:  The  Trustes  have  given  careful  con- 
sideration to  your  round  robin,  and  its  complaint  of 
and  against  Mrs.  Carney.  Mrs.  Carney  came  highly 
recommended,  and  your  statement  that  she  must 
have  come  from  some  Penal  Institution  is  entirely 
without  foundation.  Her  administration  has  been 
careful,  conscientious  and  economical.  The  Trustees 
hope  that  these  small  differences  will  be  adjusted, 
in  order  that  the  home  shall  be  what  its  founder  in- 
tended— a  haven  for  men  who  have  failed  at  a  high 
calling.  It  is  not  befitting  gentlemen  of  the  calibre 
admitted  to  the  Prentice  Home  to  refer  to  Mrs. 
Carney  as  an  "aged  harpy."  (All  the  men  gather 
around  Oglevie  in  fear.  He  reassures  them  that  he 
will  fix  it  with  Mrs.  Carney.j 

Mrs.  Carney.  Ingrates!  (They  all  slink  back  a 
little.)  Who  could  work  for  such  a  lot  of  old  fos- 
sils without  becoming  a — a  harpy  ?  A  letter  of  com- 
plaint against  me !  This  is  my  reward  for  all  I  have 
done  for  you — for  all  my  little  kindnesses  .  .  . 

Oglevie.    Kindnesses?    Mrs.  Carney  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Carney.  Yes — everything  that  April  does 
for  you  is  something  I've  thought  of  and  told  her 
to  do! 

April.  (Before  she  realises  what  she's  doing,  not 
too  loud)    Oh! 


20     '  DEAR   ME 

(Mrs.  Carney  turn^,  notices  she  is  in  the  room, 
April  quickly  goes  up  stage,  as  Mrs.  Carney 
glares  at  her.) 

Oglevie.  Surely  it  wasn't  you  who  told  her  not 
to  wait  on  the  table  to-night? 

Mrs.  Carney.  No — ^but  did  you  complain  of  her 
in  your  letter? 

Oglevie.     No,  but — er — we 

Mrs.  Carney.  No  !  Very  likely  she  was  in  league 
with  you. 

Oglevie.    Mrs.  Carney,  I 

(The  others  are  slowly  disappearing,) 

Mrs.  Carney.     Well!     (Going  toward  him,) 

Oglevie.     I  speak  for  these  gentlemen  when  I 

say (He  turns,  sees  they  have  all  gone — turns 

hack.)    Excuse  me !     (Exits.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Returning  to  Aprilj  See  here, 
young  woman,  Fm  not  going  to  be  blamed  because 
you  neglect  your  work. 

April.    What  work  have  I  neglected  ? 

Mrs.  Carney.  Don't  be  impertinent — spending 
half  your  time  around  that  fiddler — ^holding  his  hand. 

April.  (Angry)  Oh!  I  only  rub  his  wrist — 
where  it  was  hurt! 

Mrs.  Carney  Don't  talk  back!  And  no  more 
meals  in  rooms  without  my  orders!  And  now  I'm 
going  to  the  village;  and  I  want  to  find  this  room 
cleared  and  your  kitchen  work  done  up  by  the  time 
I  get  back;  so  be  lively.  Start!  (April  begins 
work  around  the  room.  Mrs.  Carney  goes  to  door- 
way, turns,  glances  at  Craig,  speaks  frigidly)  Good 
night,  Mr.  Craig! 

Craig.  (Looki/ng  up,  speaking  sweetly)  Eh?  Oh, 
good  night,  dear  Mrs.  Carney!  (Mrs.  Carney 
glances  at  him  in  surprise,  turns  and  exits.) 


DEAR   ME  21 

(Aftsr  a  pause,  when  Craig  and  April  are  left  alone, 
during  which  Craig  is  thinking  of  the  scolding 
she  has  had  for  trying  to  bring  up  his  supper, 
and  April  is  beginning  to  get  the  room  to  rights 
she  looks  up  at  him  and  suddenly  speaks,  as 
Craig  drinks  coffee,) 

April.  (Putting  napkin  in  ring)  If  your  coffee's 
cold,  ril  warm  it. 

Craig.  (Glances  at  her  a  moment,  then  smiles) 
I  like  it  cold.     (Lowers  his  head  to  cup.) 

April.  Sort  of  getting  in  training,  eh?  (Goes 
on  with  her  work.  After  sweeping  a  moment,  she 
stops,  looks  front,  thinking,  then  begins  work — then 
stops,  thinking  again,  and  looks  at  Craig. J  Mr. 
Craig. 

Craig.    Yes  ? 

April.     (Goes  to  c.)     Just  what  is  a — a  harpy? 

Craig.  (Assumed  seriousness)  A  harpy  was  an 
ancient  sort  of  an  animal  with  the  body  of  a  bird 
and  the  head  of  a  woman. 

April.  (Taking  napkins  to  sideboard)  Is  that 
all  they  called  her  ? 

Craig.  (Laughing  suddenly)  What  do  you  call 
her? 

April.  I  don't  call  her  anything,  but  if  I  did  I'd 
find  something  better  than  "harpy."      (Slight  pause.) 

Craig.  (Looking  at  April  J  You  know,  it's  a 
shame  to  have  her  talk  to  you  that  way. 

April.    Oh,  I  don't  care! 

Craig.  (Smiles,  swings  chair  around  toward 
table)  You  know,  it  was  all  my  fault — asking  you 
to  serve  my  supper  upstairs. 

April.  (Not  knowing  what  to  say)  Oh,  that's 
all  right.  (Pause.)  You'll  find  that  chair  more  com- 
fortable. (Points  to  easy  chair.  Picks  up  maga- 
zines and  puts  them,  on  hat-rack.) 

Craig.     (Rising)     Thanks!     (He  walks  around 


22  DEAR   ME 

above  the  table,  sees  box  of  geraniums.)  Nice, 
aren't  they  ?    (He  goes  to  chair  and  sits  down  l J 

April.    Do  you  like  flowers? 

Craig.    I  like  those! 

April.  (Takes  three  glasses  to  sideboard;  comes 
back  to  table,  puts  end  of  cloth  up,  goes  and  gets 
box  and  places  it  on  the  table.)  They  were  failures 
when  I  brought  them  here. 

Craig.     They  certainly  look  successful  now! 

April.  All  they  needed  was  someone  to  care  for 
them.  Why,  I've  dug  around  them  with  my  fingers 
— I  watered  them  and  I  put  them  in  the  sun  .  .  . 

Craig.  That's  fine!  And  Renard's  hand — what 
did  you  do  to  that? 

April.  (Puts  doivn  the  box)  I'll  show  you! 
(Takes  his  hand.)  Just  like  that  .  .  .  (Bus,  with 
Craig'^s  hand.  Craig,  mystified,  watches  her.)  And 
it  won't  be  long  before  he's  the  great  Joseph  Renard 
again!  (Picks  up  geranium,  box  and  puts  it  on  l. 
end  of  the  table.)  And  he'll  always  think  of  me  and 
thank  me — he  told  me  he  would — that  will  be  my 
reward. 

Craig.    What  was  it — paralysis  ? 

April.    Didn't  they  tell  you — at  the  table  ? 

Craig.    No — he  wouldn't  let  them. 

April.  He's  proud — but  he  wouldn't  mind  if  I 
told  you.  You  see,  Joe — I'm  kind-a  tired  .  .  . 
(Takes  chair  and  sits  L.  front  of  table.)  Joe  was 
born  and  brought  up  to  play  the  violin — ^he  couldn't 
do  anything  else.  Why,  when  he  was  only  twelve 
years  old  he  played  before  all  the  kings  and  things 
in  Europe,  and  when  he  was  twenty  he'd  played 
every  place  in  the  world  but  America — and  he's  told 
rne  what  success  in  America  would  have  meant  to 
him.  It  was  his  dream  to  play  in  New  York — at  the 
Carnegie  Library.  Finally,  his  chance  came;  the 
night  before  he  was  to  appear,  some  friends  gave 
him  a  dinner;  they  stood  him  on  the  table  to  drink 


DEAR   ME  23 

to  his  success,  and  then  something  happened;  the 
table  wasn't  strong — and  when  they  picked  Joe  up 
from  all  the  broken  glass  on  the  floor,  his  wrist,  Mr. 
Craig  .  .  .  (Shows  Craig  her  wrist.)  All  the  ten- 
dons were  cut.  And  the  greatest  violinist  Europe 
ever  sent  to  America  was  ruined!  Thafs  what  the 
papers  said.    Have  you  finished? 

Craig.    Yes,  thank  you ! 

April.  (Takes  his  cup,  continuing  as  she  gets 
busy  about  the  table)  IVe  seen  the  articles  in  his 
scrap  book ;  he'll  show  it  to  you,  if  you  ask  him,  but 
not  when  the  others  are  around — ^they  make  fun  of 
him! 

Craig.     It's  a  shame !     I'm  sorry ! 

April.  Don't  be  sorry!  It  isn't  sympathy  he 
wants — but  friendship !  Try  to  like  him,  Mr.  Craig ! 
He's  real — he's  worth  it ! 

Craig.    Like  him  ?    I  did  the  moment  I  saw  him ! 

April.  (Takes  tray  from  small  table  and  puts 
knives  and  forks  on  it)  That's  fine !  You  like  Joe 
— and  I  like  Joe — and  I  like  you — and  Joe  likes — 
me.  So  we're  sort  of  a — you  know — where  three 
people  like  each  other  .  .  . 

Craig.    Well — a  trinity! 

April.  (Stops  working  and  looks  at  him)  Did 
you  understand  all  I  said? 

Craig.    Yes. 

April.  Then — ^it's  a — 2.  trinity.  (Starts  clearing 
off  table  again,  places  chair  l.  in  front  of  table  at  l. 
end  of  table,) 

Craig.  You've  been  kind  enough  to  say  you  liked 
me,  but  are  you  sure  Joe  will  ? 

April.  Sure!  Who  I  like,  Joe  likes!  What  I 
like,  Joe  likes!  Before  you  came,  we  were  a  two- 
nity!  (Starts  working  again  piling  plates.)  But 
we've  stuck  together,  Mr.  Craig,  because  it's  hard 
here  for  Joe  sometimes,  mighty  hard,  especially  when 


24  DEAR   ME 

he  gets  blue  and  discouraged,  and  think's  he'll  never 
get  a  chance  to  go  back  again. 

Craig.  When  he  gets  that  way,  April,  just  tell 
him: 

"No  star  was  ever  lost  that  once  was  seen, 
We  still  all  may  be  what  me  might  have  been." 

April.  (Stops  working)  Say  that  last  part 
again ! 

Craig.  "We  still  all  may  be  what  we  might  have 
been." 

April.    Do  you  believe  that  ? 

Craig.  (Forgetting  for  the  moment  to  he  non- 
enthusiastic )    I  certainly  do ! 

April.     Then,  what  are  you  doing  here? 

Craig.    I — why — Vm  a  failure. 

April.    At  what  ? 

Craig.   (After  a  pause)    Life! 

April.  I  don't  believe  that — tell  me — I'll  under- 
stand. 

Craig.  I  see — you  want  to  put  me  in  with  Joe 
and  the  geraniums  ? 

April.     Now  you're  making  fun  of  me  .  .  . 

Craig.    No,  I'm  not ! 

April.    What  did  you  do  before  you  came  here? 

Craig.     Nothing. 

April.  You  must  have  tried  something  and  failed 
— to  get  in  here. 

Craig.  (Rises,  heads  her  off)  Would  you  really 
like  to  know? 

April.     Yes,   I   would. 

Craig.    I  tried  to  write  a  play. 

April.    No ! 

Craig.      You're    right — no!      But    I    tried 

Have  you  ever  been  in  New  York  ? 

April.     No. 

Craig.  Then  you've  never  walked  down  Broad- 
way just  at  theatre  time!  I  wanted  to  be  the  idol  of 
that  Alley  of  Ambition.    I  wanted  to  see  my  name  in 


DEAR    ME  25 

electric  lights — and  hear  people  whisper,  "There — 
there  goes  Edgar  Craig,  the  great  playwright !" 

April.    Didn't  they  ever  whisper  ? 

Craig.  If  they  did  I  never  heard  them.  I  tried 
to  accomplish  something  worth  while.  I  tried,  and  I 
tried  and  I  tried,  but  nobody  cared — after  a  time  I 
didn't  care — and  I  was  a  failure  at — happiness! 

April.    Didn't  you  ever  love  anybody? 

Craig.    No — I  can't  even  blame  it  on  a  woman. 

April.  (Puts  knives  and  forks  down)  Oh,  I 
didn't  mean  that  kind  of  love !  I  mean — the  kind  of 
love  that  makes  you  want  to  do  something  for  some- 
body else;  the  kind  of  love  that  makes  you  happy 
when  somebody  else  is  getting  ahead,  even  if  you're 
not !  People  who  know  that  kind  of  love  aren't  un- 
happy— they  don't  fail — ^they  can't!  (Gets  plates 
and  puts  them  in  tray.) 

Craig.  It  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  open  an  office 
— a  sort  of  consulting  surgeon  to  failures ! 

April.  (During  the  following  speech  she  places 
tray  with  knives  and  forks  on  r.  end  of  table,  places 
three  chairs  back  of  table  against  fireplace.)  1  could 
— I've  had  enough  experience  here.  While  I've  been 
washing  the  dishes  and  sweeping  the  floors,  I've 
figured  it  all  out — I  could  tell  a  lot  of  people,  but 
who'd  come  to  consult  me? 

Craig.    I  would! 

April.     You  would? 

Craig.    Certainly ! 

April.  (Adjusting  chairs)  Dr.  April  Blair'' s 
office  is  now  open.  Hours,  when  Mrs.  Carney  isn't 
around!  (Craig  knocks  on  imaginary  door,  opens 
it,  enters  and  closes  it,  takes  off  imaginary  hat.) 
Come  in! 

Craig.    Good  morning.  Doctor. 

April.  (Assumes  a  professional  air,  and  stares 
coolly  at  CraigJ    You  wish  to  consult  me? 

Craig.     Yes.     I'm  a  failure! 


26  DEAR   ME 

April.    Do  you  wish  to  be  cured? 

Craig.    I  failed  because 

April.  I  don't  waste  time  with  patients  who  glory 
in  their  shame. 

Craig.    Yes — I  wish  to  be  cured. 

April.  (She  takes  imaginary  hat)  Your  hat. 
Be  seated,  please. 

Craig.     (Sits)     All  ready. 

April.    How  old  are  you  ? 

Craig.    (Hesitating)    Thirty-nine. 

April.    Married? 

Craig.    Single. 

April.    Any  brothers  or  sisters? 

Craig.    None. 

April.  Mr.  Craig,  did  you  ever  send  any  flowers 
to  a  Hospital?  (Craig  nods  ''Yes/')  For  the  poor- 
est, the  sickest,  the  lonesomest  person  there? 

Craig.    Well,  no,  I  have  never  done  that. 

April.  Now  tell  me,  did  you  ever  do  something 
for  somebody  else  and  never  let  it  be  known  to  a 
single  living  soul  outside  of  yourself? 

Craig.    No,  I  never  thought  of  it. 

April.  That's  it — you're  selfish,  Mr.  Craig! 
Now,  some  people  fail  at  things  they  are  not  quali- 
fied to  do ;  but  everybody  is  qualified  to  find  happi- 
ness. But  you  have  to  earn  it — some  people  have  to 
work  harder  than  others ! 

Craig.  Well,  Doctor,  what  remedy  do  you  pre- 
scribe for  me? 

April.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  go  out  into  the 
world  again  and  work — work  hard  for  happiness, 
but  for  the  happiness  of  somebody  else.  I  don't 
care  who  he — or  she — is — when  you  have  made  them 
happy  you'll  find  youVe  been  cured. 

Craig.    You  mean?    (He  is  absorbed.) 

April.  I  mean  that  you're  a  success  when  you 
are  happy,  and  you're  happy  when  you  make  some- 
one else  happy;  that's  my  religion. 


DEAR   ME  27 

Craig.  (Rises,  l.  to  c,  gets  imaginary  hat)  Your 
fee? 

April.  Do  you  think  it's  worth  a  fee  ? 

Craig.  It's  made  me  happy ! 

April.  Then — that's  my  fee. 

Craig.  Good  morning,  Doctor! 

April.  Good  morning! 

(Craig  goes  out  imaginary  door,  closing  it,  putting 
on  hat  J 

Craig.  You  know,  I  think  it  might  do  the  others 
good  to  consult  you. 

(Renard^s  violin  is  heard  in  the  distance.) 

April.  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't,  because  I  don't 
think  it  was  in  any  one  of  them  to  be  as  great  as 
they  were  ambitious.  As  father  used  to  say:  "If 
it's  in  you  to  do  something  artistic,  nothing  human 
can  stop  you.  (Music.)  If  you  didn't  paint  your 
art,  you'd  write  it — if  you  didn't  write  it  you'd  carve 
it  or  build  it."  (Goes  r.  She  indicates  Renard's 
music  out  the  window;  it  has  grown  closer.) 

Craig.  (Goes  up  r.  and  looks  off,  as  though  he 
is  seeing  Joe  playing)  Why,  that's  Joe !  I  thought 
he  couldn't  play! 

April.  He  doesn't  call  that  playing — ^but  he  com- 
poses. Oh,  the  most  beautiful  music!  (Song — just 
a  snatch,  as  Renard  finishes  the  melody  he  plays 
as  he  enters.) 

Craig.  (At  end  of  song;  shows  amazement  at 
AprilJ    Well,  where  did  you  learn  to  do  that? 

April.    You  like  it? 

Craig.    Like  it?    And  Fve  heard  them  all. 

April.    You  have? 

Craig.    Yes.    What  was  it? 

April.    That's  just  a  little  song  Joe  taught  me. 


28  DEAR   ME 

Craig.  Oh,  why,  it's  lovely !  Fd  like  to  hear  it 
all.     (Renard  enters.) 

Renard.    No,  no! 

April.    Mrs.  Carney 

Craig.    She's  gone  to  the  village — please !  please ! 

Renard.    April 

Craig.  What— one  of  the  Trinity  tell  on  the 
Twonity  ? 

(Song,    At  end  of  song  Craig  goes  to  April,  takes 
her  hand.    Renard  slaps  him  on  the  back.) 

Craig.    Sing  something  else. 

April.    That's  all  I  know. 

Renard.  (r.c.)  I  am  glad  you  like  it.  I  can't 
play  very  well — my  .  .  .     (Holds  out  hand.) 

April,  (uc.)  He  knows,  Joe,  he  knows;  I've 
told  him — he  understands. 

Renard.  fR.c.j  Oh,  you  understand?  Then  so 
much  for  that!  And  now,  mademoiselle — the  post- 
man— ^he  have  arrive — ^your  letter.  (Gives  April  a 
letter.) 

April.  Oh,  what  a  surprise!  I  needed — to  hear 
from  her  to-night.  (Exclaims  with  surprise  and 
takes  the  letter.) 

Renard.  You're  luckier  than  the  rest  of  us.  We 
all  go  to  the  Post  Office  every  night — hoping — ^but 
we  never  gtt  any  letters. 

April.  ("l.c.J  You  could — ^you  have  just  as  dear 
a  friend  as  I  have. 

Craig.  ("r.J  I  thought  you  were  alone  in  the 
world  ? 

April,    ("l.c.j    I  am,  but  I  can  write. 

Craig.    I  don't  understand. 

Renard.  I  let  you  in  on  a  little  secret.  She 
writes  to  herself,  and  when  we  haven't  any  money 


DEAR   ME  29 

for  stamps — well,  I  just  carry  the  letter  around  in 
my  pocket  for  a  little  while. 

Craig.     Now  I  understand. 

April.  Mr.  Crai^,  you  won't  laugh  at  me,  will 
you? 

Craig.    I  should  say  not! 

April.     See,  Joe — he  is  one  of  us  now. 

Craig.  Tell  me  something  about  these  letters — 
you  know — are  they  intensely  personal? 

April.     Oh,  yes! 

Craig.    Something  that  I  should  not  see  ? 

April.  Oh,  no,  you  may  read  it.  (Hands  letter 
to  Craig.J  I've  got  to  put  these  things  away! 
(Exits,  taking  pile  of  plates.) 

Renard.  When  she  is  bad,  she  scolds  herself. 
When  she  is  good — sometimes  I  think  she  sends  her- 
self a  little  bouquet.  Now,  what  does  the  best 
friend  have  to  say  this  night  ? 

Craig.    (Reading  letter) 
"Dear  Me: 

"I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
like  the  way  you  lost  your  temper  with  Mrs.  Carney 
yesterday.  It  didn't  do  anybody  any  good;  Mrs. 
Carney  is  just  the  same,  but  you  are  worse  off. 

"I  walked  down  the  road  the  other  day  and  saw  a 
garden;  it  was  full  of  flowers.  Now,  you  have  a 
garden — it  isn't  in  somebody's  back  yard — but  in 
your  own  mind.  The  flowers  in  it  are  the  things  you 
think,  and  the  weeds  are  the  nasty,  mean  little  things 
you  do.  And,  Dear  Me,  your  garden  is  full  of  weeds 
to-day. 

"Now  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed ;  but  before  I  go,  let 
me  give  you  some  advice!  If  you  hoe  carefully 
among  your  thoughts  (just  as  you  do  among  your 
geraniums)  maybe  somebody  will  see  a  flower  and 
want  one ;  but  who  wants  weeds  ? 

"Now,  I  hope  I  won't  have  to  write  to  you  again 


30  DEAR   ME 

on  this  subject.    With  kindest  regards  to  dear,  dear 
Mrs.  Carney  and  all  the  nice  gentlemen,  I  close, 
"Hopefully  yours, 

"Myself/" 
"P.  S. — I  hope  you  notice  I  pulled  out  two  weeds 
by  saying  such  lovely  things  about  the  old  inmates 
and  their  keeper." 

Craig.    She's  a  wonderful  girl,  Joe! 

Renard.  Mr.  Craig,  she's  more  than  that !  Now, 
let  me  tell  you 

Craig.    Sh-h-h ! 

(April  enters,  smiling.) 

April.  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  dear  friend 
"Myself"  ?  (Goes  to  work  at  table,  gets  glasses  to- 
gether, etc.) 

Craig.  (Looking  at  her)  I  think  you  have  a  re- 
markable friend — I'd  like  to  have  one  like  her. 
(Hands  letter  to  April.  J 

April.    You  can — that's  easy. 

Craig.    How  ? 

April.    Just  take  your  pen  in  hand. 

Craig.  (Laughing)  I  may  try  that  some  day. 
(Takes  out  a  cigarette  and  nmtch,  strikes  the  match.) 

April.    It  does  me  a  lot  of  good. 

Craig.    Smoke,  Renard? 

Renard.  (Jumps  for  CraigJ  No^ — no!  Mon 
Dieu !  Not  that,  Mr.  Craig — not  here.  It's  against 
Mrs.  Carney's  rules.  (Indicates  the  kitchen.)  She 
has  the  nose  of  a  bloodhound;  you  would  not  take 
two  puffs  before — annihilation! 

Craig.     Is  there  a — a  smoking  room? 

Renard.  Yes — the  wide  world — outside — but  stay 
far  away  from  the  house. 

Craig.  I  see — then  I  shall  seek  the  wide  world. 
Will  you  excuse  me,  April?  (April,  fascinated  by 
these  manners,  nods.)    And  you,  Joe? 


DEAR   ME  31 

Renard.    Avec  plaisir.     (Pauses.) 

Craig.     My  first  name  is  Edgar. 

Renard.     With  regret,  Edgar. 

Craig.    I  thank  you,  Joe  and  April.     (Exits.) 

(April  and  Joe  stand  watching  as  he  goes  out  of  the 
door.) 

April.  (Turns  to  Renardj  Joe,  did  you  hear 
what  Mr.  Craig  said  when  you  played  and  I  sang? 
(During  this  talk  April  walks  to  porch  to  shake 
table-cover.)  He  said,  "Sing  some  more."  He 
wanted  to  hear  me  sing  again,  Joe,  and  he  knows! 

Renard.  I  know,  too,  oh,  mon  enfant!  With 
work — some  day  you  will  sing ;  you  shall  have  your 
chance ;  some  day  you  will  leave  this  place  .  .  . 

April.  Oh,  Joe,  don't  say  it,  because  I  can't — 
ever — so  long  as  I'm  needed  here. 

Renard.  Oh,  what  you  owe  them  for  their  care 
of  your  father  will  soon  be  paid,  and  then — work — 
out  there  in  the  big  world. 

April.    Oh,  Joe,  if  I  only  could.    If  I  only  could! 

Renard.  You  will,  but  have  patience!  And 
then (He  bursts  into  his  native  tongue.) 

April.  (Sings  and  works,  goes  to  table,  takes  all 
glasses,  puts  them  on  sideboard  at  l.  By  this  time 
the  table  is  well  cleared  of  dishes.)  Joe,  Joe — do 
you  like  Mr.  Craig? 

Renard.    Do  you  ? 

April.     Yes-s-s ! 

Renard.  Then  that's  enough  for  old  Joe.  (Studies 
his  wrist  a  moment.)  Maybe  he's  better  than  an 
old  fiddler  with  a  broken  wrist  .  .  . 

April.  (Going  over  to  him  like  a  flash — takes  his 
hand  in  both  of  hers)  I'm  ashamed  of  you  for  even 
thinking  such  a  thing.  Why,  there  isn't  another 
person  in  the  world  like  you!  (Takes  him  arovmd 
the  neck.) 


32 


DEAR   ME 


Renard.  That's  good  for  the  world — and  this 
home  is  good  for  the  world,  too.  Like  the  attic, 
where  people  put  all  the  old  rubbish ! 

April.  But,  Joe,  you're  not  rubbish.  You  are 
not  like  the  others!  When  that  accident  happened 
you  didn't  stop — ^you  began  something  else — ^you 
said  you'd  be  a  composer — and  you  will !  Now,  look 
at  the  others — they're  here  because  they're  lazy — 
they're  the  rubbish — not  you! 

(All  enter  talking  ad  lib. — ''It  won't  do  any  good'' 
— "Their  letter  settles  if — ''If  someone  would 
poison  the  old  crank,  they^d  have  to  find  some- 
one else'^  etc.  Nothing  to  he  heard,  just  a  jum- 
ble of  voices.  Oglevie  enters  with  Lawton  on 
one  side  of  him  and  Peck  on  the  other.  Ogle- 
vie  sees  April  and  Joe  and  turns  back  to  the 
others.) 

Oglevie.  (Turning  at  door)  Here  they  are — 
together  as  usual! 

Lawton.    What  they  find  to  talk  about  beats  me. 

Renard.     Oh,  let  her  alone ! 

April.  (Angrily,  taking  them  all  in)  I  was  talk- 
ing about  you ! 

(Oglevie  crosses  c.) 

Peck.  You  were,  were  you?  Well,  well,  she  was 
talking  about  us,  gentlemen — and  what  were  you 
saying  about  us  ? 

April.    That  you're  cheats! 

Oglevie.  (Astounded)  Cheats !  Well,  upon  my 
soul! 

xA^PRTL.  Well,  you  are!  All  of  you!  You  were 
all  put  on  earth  to  do  something — ^but  because  of 
this  Home  and  that  old  man's  misplaced  kindness, 
you  don't  even  try  to  do  anything.    You're  cheating 


DEAR   ME  33 

him;  you're  cheating  the  rest  of  the  world — you're 
cheating  God — ^btit,  worst  of  all,  you're  cheating 
yourselves ! 

Bean.  Ha,  that's  funny !  I  never  thought  of  that 
before. 

April.  You  never  thought,  Mr.  Bean,  and  you, 
Mr.  Oglevie,  and  you,  Mr.  Lawton,  nor  any  of  you ! 
You've  never  thought  that  this  Home  has  given  you 
an  excuse  to  stop,  and  you've  taken  it.  Have  any 
of  you  ever  thought  that  there  might  still  be  a  chance 
out  there — have  you  ? 

Turner.  I  have,  April.  Sometimes  I  work  writ- 
ing at  my  book,  and  I've  tried  to  hope  that  per- 
haps .  .  . 

April.     That's  it — perhaps!     (Lawton  coughs.) 

Oglevie.  That's  right,  Lawton,  cough.  (Comes 
down  in  front  of  table  c. — to  AprilJ  There  may 
be  something  in  what  you  say,  but  I  don't  like  the 
way  you  put  it.  If  you  care  to  offer  a  little  apol- 
ogy ..  . 

April.  I  haven't  any  apology  to  make.  I  work 
for  my  living,  and  I  can  look  any  of  you — and  him 
— (Pointing  to  portrait) — straight  in  the  eye !  That's 
more  than  any  of  you  can  do !  (Places  Joe's  violin 
in  hag.) 

Oglevie.  (Hesitates  for  a  moment)  Well,  I  may 
have  failed,  but  no  one  ever  said  before  that  I  was 
dishonest ! 

April.  Well,  you  are!  All  of  you,  except  Joe! 
There's  something  for  every  one  of  you  to  do  out 
there — why  don't  you  do  it? 

(Mrs.  Carney  has  come  in  on  the  end  of  this  speech 
from  door  r.,  and  Craig  has  come  into  the  en- 
trance to  the  porch.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Coming  c.)  And  why  don't  you 
do  your  work  instead  of  talking  to  these  old  Round 


34  DEAR    ME 

Robin  writers — (Peck  and  Bean  exit  quickly  l,) — 
and  keeping  them  from  going  to  bed  ? 

(April  starts  moving  chairs.) 

Oglevie.  Quite  right,  Mrs.  Carney;  we  were  just 
going  up.  (Crosses  l.,  offers  her  candy.  All  the  men 
move  toward  stairway.)  They  say  *'sleep  before 
midnight  makes  for  health — and  beauty.'' 

Mrs.  Carney.  Well,  I  never  get  to  bed  before 
midnight — with  you  on  my  hands. 

Oglevie.  (As  he  turns  at  the  entrance  to  the 
stairs)  That's  funny — somehow  I  felt  you  stayed 
up  late.  Good-night,  good-night.  (Exits  l.  The 
others  follow  with  mumbled  good-nights.) 

(Mrs.  Carney  waits,  not  saying  a  word.  April,  a 
little  frightened,  begins  to  fuss  about  the  table. 
Craig  stands  unnoticed  in  the  doorway.  Renard 
down  L.J 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Glancing  about  room — then  at 
April,  glaring)  Now,  young  lady,  why  isn't  your 
work  finished? 

April.  I  was  talking  to  Mr.  Craig.  (Crosses 
back  to  tray.) 

(Craig  saunters  on  and  slowly  gets  up  c.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Talking — that's  what  you're  al- 
ways doing.  You're  like  that  father  of  yours — 
that's  what  landed  him  here — talking! 

April.  Oh — (In  great  anger) — ^you'd  better  stop, 
Mrs.  Carney! 

Mrs.  Carney.  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like 
that — you  Insignificant  cattle! 

April.  (Lets  tray  of  dishes  fall)  Oh!  How 
dare  you  talk  like  that  to  me ! 


DEAR    ME  35 

Mrs.  Carney.  Pick  up  those  dishes — pick  them 
up— or  ril 

April,  Or  you'll  what?  Come  on — ^youVe  been 
threatening  me  for  years — ever  since  I  could  re- 
jmember  almost — now  what  are  you  going-  to  do? 

Mrs.  Carney.  Do  ?  I'll  show  you !  (Raises  her 
hand  as  though  to  strike  her,  when  Craig  quietly 
steps  between  them,  Mrs.  Carney  sees  him  and 
stops.) 

Craig.  (Smiling  at  Mrs.  CarneyJ  I  wouldn't 
do  that,  Mrs,  Carney — ^you'll  get  yourself  all  tired 
out! 

April.    I'm  not  afraid  of  her,  Mr.  Craig! 

Craig,  (Seeing  he  has  stopped  her)  Oh,  all 
right.  (Puts  hands  in  pockets  and  walks  up  stage, 
leaving  Mrs.  Carney  and  April  glaring  at  each 
other.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Low,  menacing  tone)  Now  you 
get  out  of  here ! 

April.    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Carney.  I  mean  you're  through — dis- 
charged!  (She  goes  to  stairs,  turning  at  the  stairs.) 
And  if  your  clothes  aren't  out  of  here  by  morning, 
ril  burn  them!     (Exits.) 

(April  stands  looking  after  her,  in  a  daze.  Craig 
up  c,  looking  on  curiously.  Renard  comes 
slowly  to  ApRiL.j 

April.     Oh!    Oh!    Mrs.  Carney— thank  you! 

Renard.    April ! 

April.  Joe,  did  you  hear?  (Renard  nods.) 
Think  what  it  means — I'm  free — free!  There's 
nothing  between  me  and  the  great  big  world  out 
there ! 

Renard.    Then  the  time  has  come 

April.  (Gleefully)  Of  course,  didn't  you  hear 
her  tell  me  to  go  ? 


36  DEAR   ME 

Renard.  Then  we  go  together.  Get  ready — old 
Joe  goes  with  you! 

April.    Joe! 

Craig.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  little  more 
sensible  to  wait  until  to-morrow? 

April.  To-morrow!  My  life  has  been  nothing 
but  waiting  for  to-morrow — what  counts  with  me  is 
now!  I  want  to  start  where  my  father  stopped,  and 
/  will! 

Craig.  But  where  are  you  going?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  ? 

April.  Work,  Mr.  Craig,  work !  My  chance  has 
come  and  I'm  going  to  take  it ! 

Craig.  Well — ^good  luck — ^and  good-bye!  Good- 
bye, Joe !     (He  waves  his  hand  to  Renard.J 

Renard.    Good-bye,  Edgar! 

Craig.  (To  April  J  Oh — shall  I  take  care  of 
the  geraniums  for  you  ? 

April.  I'd  like  to  have  you.  (Craig  exits  up- 
stairs.) Our  trinity  didn't  last  very  long,  did  it? 
(Shakes  it  off.)  Come,  Joe,  we  can't  waste  any 
more  time.  (Gets  upon  chair  l.,  hack  of  table.)  I'm 
so  afraid  something  will  happen  to  stop  us.  How 
long  will  it  take  you  to  pack? 

Renard.  (Indicating  violin,  which  is  vurapped 
up)  I'm  packed!  (Renard  and  April  turn  out 
lights  on  chandelier.) 

April.  I'll  get  my  things  right  away.  You  wait 
for  me  here,  and  don't  be  long!  (Renard  exits  l. 
April  starts,  puts  out  the  two  lights  over  the  mantel; 
as  she  turns  out  the  last  light  she  exits  quietly  into 
kitchen.) 

(Craig,  who  cannot  he  identified  hy  the  audience, 
comes  downstairs  and  crosses  to  the  portrait. 
As  he  is  crossing  the  clock — offstage — strikes  . 
nine.    He  stops  in  front  of  the  portrait,  strikes  1 
a  match,  looks  at  portrait  for  a  moment,  then 


DEAR   ME  37 

goes  over,  with  match  still  burning,  to  gerani- 
ums, looks  at  them.  Suddenly  he  hears  foot- 
steps; blows  out  the  match.  April  enters  from 
the  kitchen,  closing  door  carefully  behind  her. 
Renard  enters  from  stairs,) 

April.     Joe ! 

Renard.    Yes ! 

April.    All  ready!    (Bumps  into  Craig.J    Oh! 

Craig.     Fm  sorry! 

April.  Mr.  Craig!  It  wasn't  any  use  coming 
down.  If  I  don't  go  now,  I  might  never  go.  Please 
don't  try  to  stop  me! 

Craig.  (At  back  of  table)  I'm  not  going  to  try 
to  stop  you — Fm  going  with  you! 

April.     Say  that  again! 

Craig.  (Half  imitating  April,  half  meaning  it) 
I'm  going  to  try  to  make  somebody  happy ! 

April.  You  have !  Isn't  that  a  wonderful  begin- 
ning! 

(Craig  comes  down  l.  of  table.) 

Renard.  Look,  April,  he's  bringing  the  gerani- 
ums! 

April.    O-o-o-oh !    (All  three  start  to  exit.) 

CURTAIN 


ACT  II 


Scene  I — When  Edgar,  Joe  and  April  snmked  out 
of  the  Home  they  came  to  New  York,  which  is 
a  great  place  for  people  to  fail  and  equally  a 
great  place  for  failures  to  succeed. 

For  those  on  the  up-grade,  if  they  haven't  any  money 
— or,  more  important,  don't  want  people  to 
think  they  have  any  money — a  couple  of  rooms 
in  a  West  Forty-fifth  Street  rooming-house 
make  an  excellent  headquarters. 

In  just  such  a  place  Edgar  Craig  led  his  two  failures 
— if  you  want  to  refute  him.  and  call  April  one. 
For  a  year  they  lived  there.  Du/ring  that  time 
strange  things  happened. 

Out  of  nowhere  Craig  enjoyed  a  neat  little  income. 
Nothing  great,  but  enough  so  that  presently  an 
old-fashioned  piano  made  its  appearance,  so  that 
April's  voice  could  be  trained  under  the  loving 
care  of  old  Joe,  and  the  melodies  that  lingered 
in  Joe's  brain,  since  those  rash  days  in  Poland, 
could  find  expression.  For  himself,  Edgar  ob- 
tained a  flea-bitten  typewriter.  At  this  he 
slaved,  while  Joe  was  out  with  April  seeing 
New  York,  its  museums  and  its  theatres,  and 
above  all  its  life. 

So  all  three  grew,  and  all  their  lives  I  don't  think 
they  will  ever  forget  those  mornings  when  April 
would  have  her  lessons  with  Joe,  zvhile  Edgar, 
at  his  typewriter,  played  a  telegraphic  obligato. 

When  they  had  been  living  in  their  modest  estab- 

38 


DEAR   ME  39 

lishment  kept  neat  by  April — for  the  lessons 
of  Mrs.  Carney  were  not  forgotten — the  gen- 
eral room  of  their  unpretentious  apartment 
looked  not  unhomelike.  The  old  piano  was  set 
beside  the  one  window  that  looked  out  over 
Forty-fifth  Street.  What  sun  there  was  first 
hit  the  geraniums  before  it  fell  across  the  key- 
board. And,  by  the  way,  the  geraniums  were 
thriving  monstrously. 

Across  the  back  of  the  room  was  the  door  to  the 
hall.  And  just  across  the  hall  was  the  door  to 
April'^s  room.  On  the  other  wall  was  the  door 
to  the  kitchen.  A  few  chairs,  Edgar^s  type- 
writer table,  which  also  served  as  the  general 
carry-all  for  the  three  of  them,  and  some  funny 
little  pictures,  served  as  the  furnishings — but 
the  place  was  so  cheery  you  instantly  forgave 
its  seeming  bareness. 

At  Rise — and  it  is  particularly  cheery  this  morning, 
April  is  singing  and  Renard  playing  her  ac- 
companiment. Craig  is  speeding  along  at  his 
machine — we  have  no  interest  at  present  in  what 
he  is  doing.  Neither  has  he,  apparently,  for  he 
stops  to  listen  to  April,  and  if  you  look  sharply 
you  may  detect  something  more  than  an  ama- 
teur interest  in  music  in  his  gaze. 

(April  takes  a  high  note — and  not  to  Renard's 
liking,  for  he  stops  the  scale  he  is  playing  and 
hits  the  note  sharply  on  the  piano.  April  tries 
again — still  she  is  flat,  so  flat  that  even  Craig, 
idolising  her  as  he  does,  cannot  help  but  re- 
mark.) 

Craig.     Little  flat,  isn't  she,  Joe? 
Renard.    Perhaps  you  like  to  give  her  the  lessons 
and  let  me  play  on  the  typewriter. 
Craig.    I  beg  your  pardon. 


40  DEAR   ME 

Renard.  If  you  don't  spell  something  right,  do 
we  stop  you?  Then  maybe  when  we  dpn't  sing 
something  right,  you  give  us  the  same  consideration. 

Craig.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  want  April 
to  "get  oflf  on  the  wrong  foot." 

Renard.     I  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  foots. 

April.  He  doesn't  mean  anything ;  he  is  just  in- 
terested in  my  career.  He  wants  me  to  get  a  good 
start. 

Renard.  Oh,  Edgar,  is  that  what  you  mean? 
I  .  .  . 

April.  Joe,  don't  annoy  him.  (She  starts  toward 
Craig  to  see  what  he  is  writing.  He  does  not  see 
her,  but  Renard  calls  her  back  and  explains.) 

Renard.    April,  perhaps  he  has  a  wonderful  idea ! 

April.  (Is  curious,  and  walks  over  to  Craig  J 
What  are  you  doing,  Edgar,  working  on  your  great 
play? 

Craig.    Yes. 

April.    Let  me  see  it? 

Craig.  No,  no!  (Covers  the  machine  with  his 
arms.) 

April.  Oh,  my !  I  let  you  listen  when  I  sing,  so 
why  can't  I  read  your  play  ? 

Craig.  Nothin'  doin',  April !  This  is  my  secret ! 
(April  pouts.) 

Renard.  (At  piano)  Now,  come  here;  like  a 
busy  little  bee,  making  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 
Now  the  song,  and  watch  your  foot !     (April  sings.) 

April.    Oh,  it's  ten  o'clock !    Got  to  quit  now ! 

Renard.  Quit?  Quit?  (He  is  amazed.)  You 
will  never  succeed  unless  you  persevere.  Look  at 
Tetrazzini ! 

April.  (Going  toward  the  door)  I  will  look  at 
Tetrazzini  some  other  time.  Just  now  this  prima 
donna  has  to  clean  her  white  shoes. 

Renard.     Clean  her  white  shoes!     Mon  Dieu! 


DEAR   ME  41 

Such  an  ambition !  (He  plays  a  strain  of  the  song, 
''Dear  Me/') 

April.    (Stops  to  listen)    What  is  that,  Joe? 

Renard.  Just  an  idea  for  a  new  melody.  You 
like  it? 

April.    I  think  it  is  terrible! 

Renard.  (Rising  from  piano  and  walking  across 
room,  angry  in  his  own  volatile  manner)  Now  this 
is  the  end !     Now  I  quit ! 

April.     You  quit  ? 

Renard.    I  quit!    Q-u-i-t!  etc. 

April.  But,  Joe,  you  will  never  succeed  unless 
you  persevere !  Look  at  Paderewski !  Such  an  am- 
bition! (And  she  goes  into  her  room  across  the 
hall,) 

Renard.  Oh !  Now,  just  for  that  I  will  make  her 
rehearse  to-morrow  for  ten  hours ! 

(Craig  at  table  typewriting.  Telephone  on  table 
beside  the  machine  rings,  Craig  pays  no  at- 
tention,   Renard  walks  back  to  the  piano,) 

Craig.     Answer  the  'phone,  Joe! 

Renard.    Answer  it  yourself ! 

Craig.  (Takes  down  receiver)  Hello !  Well — 
who  do  you  want?  Mr.  Prentice?  Who  is  this? 
Manny  Bean !  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  not 
to  call  me  up  here?  If  you  want  to  talk  to  me,  call 
me  up  at  my  house  up-town.  If  she  ever  hears  about 
my  doing  all  this  for  her,  you're  fired ! 

Renard.    If  she  don't  hear,  she's  deaf ! 

Craig.     Close  the  door!     (Over  'phone)     Now 

you  can  go  ahead;  yes,  of  course Then  ask 

her  to  come  down  to  the  office  and  talk  about  a  con- 
tract, and  you  give  her  five  times  as  much  as  she 
asks. 

Renard.    She  is  not  worth  that  much! 

Craig.    How  much  ? 


42  DEAR   ME 

Renard.    Five  times  as  much  as  she  expects ! 

Craig.  If  she  finds  out  .  .  .  (April  enters,  and 
Renard  digs  Craig  in  the  ribs,  Craig  speaks  in  a 
more  impersonal  tone,)  She  was  here  a  moment 
ago.    Here  she  is  now! 

April.     Who  is  it,  Edgar? 

Craig.  Manny!  Manny  Bean  from  the  Home! 
You  got  a  letter  from  him  to-day. 

Renard.  Let  me  talk  to  him.  (Picking  up  tele- 
phone, Craig  holding  receiver  to  his  ear.)  Hello, 
Manny!  This  is  Joe — ^Joe  Renard — talking.  You 
need  some  music  for  your  show?     What  you  say? 

I  can't  hear  you (He  then  realizes  he  has  not 

the  receiver,) 

Craig.  Yes,  he  needs  some  music.  (To  'phone) 
Well,  Manny,  when  are  you  going  to  start  rehears- 
als?    So  soon? 

April.  (Walking  to  the  table)  Oh,  Edgar,  I 
wish  you  would  treat  me  as  though  I  were  of  some 
importance ! 

Craig.  Well,  are  you?  (In  'phone,  as  though 
talking  to  Bean.J 

April.  Well,  I  must  be,  when  a  regular  manager 
sends  me  a  note  and  then  telephones  me. 

Craig.  (Handing  over  telephone)  Well,  he  has 
been  waiting  while  you  were  talking. 

April.  (To  'phone)  Yes !  I  have  been  awfully 
excited  since  I  received  your  note!  Oh,  Manny,  I 
mean,  Mr.  Bean.  You  will?  Yes!  Yes!  Well,  I 
think  so.     I  will  be  right  over.     Oh  .  .  . 

Renard.    Well,  tell  us  what  did  he  say? 

April.  It's  work,  Joe!  It's  work  at  last!  He 
said  to  come  right  over  and  sign  a  contract  for  a 
part  in  a  new  play.  At  last  my  chance  has  come. 
(Turning  to  Craig  J     If  he  would  send  for  you! 

Craig.    Oh,  some  other  day. 

April.    But  never  mind,  when  I  am  a  success  I 


DEAR   ME  43 

promise  never  to  play  anything  unless  you  write  it, 
and  never  to  sing  a  song  unless  Joe  writes  it ! 

Renard.     But  how  are  we  going  to  eat  till  then  ? 

April.  That  won't  be  long!  Up  to  now  Tve 
only  been  the  tiny  angle  of  our  triangle,  but  from 
now  on  I  am  to  be  the  principal  corner-stone.  We've 
lived  nearly  a  year  on  Edgar's  little  income.  Now 
it's  my  turn  to  do  something,  and  I'm  going  to  show 
him  and  you,  and  all  of  you — (Looking  into  purse 
and  finding  it  empty)     Who  has  carfare? 

Craig.    Here  you  are,  April. 

April.  I  will  make  good,  you'll  see  if  I  don't! 
Just  watch  me!  (And  she  goes  out  in  a  flurry  of 
joy.) 

Craig.  It  looks  as  though  we  have  started  some- 
thing. 

Renard.  It  looks  as  if  someone  else  is  going  to 
finish  it!     (Craig  smiles  at  him,) 

(Joe  returns  to  the  piano  and  begins  to  play  the 
chorus  of  ^'Dear  Me/*  Craig  is  still  thinking 
about  April,  but  now  the  lilt  of  the  melody 
catches  his  ear.  He  listens  for  a  second  and 
then  dashes  down  to  his  table — there  he  begins 
to  write,  after  he  has  said  over  to  himself  some 
words.  His  idea  is  a  good  one — he  turns  to 
Renard,  and  with  enthusiasm  says) 

Craig.  Joe,  play  that  over  again.  (And  Renard, 
bless  his  heart  for  not  asking  questions,  starts  to 
play  it  again.  Craig  makes  sure  his  metre  is  cor- 
red  and  then  stops  Renard. J  Listen,  Joe!  Play  it 
again !  I've  got  it !  Now  see  if  you  don't  like  this. 
(And  as  Renard  begins  again,  Craig  starts  to  sing.) 

"Dear  Me,  I'm  writing  to  you 

To  ask  you  do  you  .  .  ."  etc. 

CURTAIN 


SCENE   II 

After  the  curtain  has  been  down  a  few  seconds  it 
rises  again,  but  something  has  happened  to  our 
room. 

The  table  is  cleared  off  and  the  piano  covered,  and 
it  has  the  air  of  not  having  been  occupied  for 
some  time.  The  curtains  are  down  and  on  a 
chair.  Mere  skeletons  of  their  former  selves 
are  the  dead  geranium  plants,  which  later  find 
their  way  back  to  the  window  ledge. 

Then  we  hear  a  key  in  the  door,  and  when  it  opens  a 
spick  little  Japanese  servant  who  answers,  we 
shall  see,  to  the  name  of  Clarence  enters.  He 
has  a  handbag  with  him  which  he  takes  into 
the  kitchen.  He  is  whistling  and  merry  as  he 
makes  the  room  habitable  again,  opening  the 
window,  replacing  on  the  ledge  the  box  of  ger- 
aniums,  uncovering  the  piano,  and  preparing 
some  writing  materials  for  someone.  Hardly 
finished  this  job  when 

Craig  enters.  He  is  not  the  Craig  we  have  seen 
before — the  rather  drab  fellow  in  a  dressing- 
gown  and  muffler.  No,  indeed.  His  clothes 
are  of  the  Avenue,  so  is  his  hat  and  his  general 
air  of  radiant  prosperity.  He  is  not  Edgar 
Craig,  the  failure,  but  Edgar  Prentice,  the 
wealthy  young  romancer  without  whom  we 
should  never  have  had  this  play.  But  he  does 
not  long  remain  in  this  latter  character.  Even, 
as  through  the  action,  he  changes  back  into 
Edgar  Craig,  no  m^ere  alteration  of  clothes 
could  hide  his  happiness — something  important 
is  occurring — but  we  shall  have  to  wait  to  see 
what  it  is. 


DEAR   ME  45 

Room  in  lodging-house  on  second  floor.  It  is  neatly 
furnished;  window  r.  Tvith  curtains.  Door  in 
flat  R.  of  c.  showing  another  door  across  the 
hall;  door  l.u.e. 

Rug  on  floor;  library  table  l.c,  with  legal  paper, 
pencils,  match-holder  and  trey,  theatrical  papers 
and  wastebasket  front  of  i':.  Chairs  r.  and  l. 
of  table;  chair  at  back  of  table;  baby  grand 
piano  R.  What-not  u.r.  corner  with  bric-a- 
brac.  Small  table  at  back  r.  of  door;  on  it  is 
sheet  music,  magazines  and  a  violin  case. 

Bookcase  with  books  on  wall  at  back  l.,  lounge  under 
it.  Chair  l.  of  door;  chair  down  r.,  beside 
piano.  Table  desk  down  l.  against  the  wall; 
on  it  small  writing-pad  and  writing  materials, 
books,  small  clock,  photos  and  music-roll.  Chair 
L.  beside  the  desk;  hat-rack  in  corner  u.l.  Pic- 
tures on  wall;  gas  bracket  on  wall  R.  and  l. 
Gas  bracket  on  wall  R.,  beside  the  door  r.c  J 

Clarence.  (As  Craig  enters)  Good-morning, 
Mr.  Prentice. 

Craig.    Mr.  Prentice? 

Clarence.    Oh,  excuse.    Here — Mr.  Craig. 

Craig.    Ah,  that's  better. 

Clarence.  You  going  to  work  to-day?  I  have 
nice  paper,  pencils,  all  right. 

Craig.  No,  we  are  not  going  to  work  to-day. 
Somebody's  coming  to  town.  (Clarence  laughs.) 
And  if  you  ask  me  who  it  is,  I'll  fire  you ! 

Clarence.    Mr.  Prentice (Craig  stops  him 

short.)  Oh,  Mr.  Craig,  you  rich  man  to-day,  or 
poor  man  ? 

Craig.  Rich  man  or  poor  man?  Poor  man  to- 
day, Clarence.  Now,  get  the  poor  man's  things! 
Hurry  up !  And  when  you  go  to  the  house,  tell  the 
cook  there'll  be  five  for  dinner — four  and  myself! 

Clarence.    (Grins)    Oh,  yes,  sir ! 


46  DEAR   ME 

Craig.    (Laughing)    What  are  you  grinning  at? 

Clarence.  (Grinning  broadly)  Excuse.  (There 
is  a  knock  on  the  door.) 

Craig.  Come  in!  (Manny  Bean  enters,) 
Hello,  Manny  Bean! 

Bean.  (Excitedly  and  happily)  Well,  well,  well, 
well!  How  are  you,  Mr.  Prentice?  I  was  on  my 
way  up  to  your  house,  then  I  had  a  hunch  I  might 
find  you  here. 

Craig.  (Looking  at  his  watch)  I  thought  you 
were  just  leaving  Hartford? 

Bean.    I  came  ahead  of  the  company. 

Craig.  Oh!  Well,  how  did  the  show  go  last 
night  ? 

Bean.  Immense !  It  goes  bigger  with  every  per- 
formance. YouVe  some  writer,  Mr.  Prentice — hon- 
estly, you're  a  wonder ! 

Craig.  (Shaking  his  hand)  Well,  then,  we  agree 
upon  one  thing.  Seriously,  though,  it's  too  good  to 
believe.  (Goes  up  l.J  I'm  going  to  wake  up  some 
day,  Manny,  sure! 

Bean.    You  have  waked  up,  Mr.  Prentice. 

Craig.  And  before  I  went  to  the  Home  I  couldn't 
write  a  success. 

Bean.     Oh,  well,  that  was  diflferent! 

Craig.     How,  diflferent? 

Bean.  (Uncertainly)  Well,  then  you  were  trying 
to  write  a  show;  this  time  you  were  thinking  of  a 
part  for  a  girl. 

Craig.  (Coming  down  l.  of  c.)  You  mean  I 
was  doing  it  for  somebody  elsef 

Bean.     Yes,  sure! 

Craig.     (Facing  front,  thinking)    That's  funny! 

Bean.    What's  funny? 

Craig.     I  had  a  tip  to  try  that? 

Bean.     A  tip?    Who  from? 

Craig.  From — from  a  doctor.  But  you  wouldn't 
understand. 


DEAR   ME  47 

Bean.  A  doctor  told  you  to  write  a  show  for 
April? 

Craig.  Well,  not  exactly,  but  that  was  the  idea. 
Before  my  other  plays  were  terrible,  but  this  one — 
well,  we  mustn't  crow  too  soon.     (Sits  l.  of  table  c) 

Bean.     I  tell  you  it  is  now ! 

Craig.     How  did  they  like  April  in  Hartford? 

(Clarence  enters  with  clothes,) 

Bean.  Just  killed  them,  that's  all.  All  her  nerv- 
ousness is  gome  now — she's  as  steady  as  a  clock 
when  she's  on  there — you'd  think  she  was  born  on 
the  stage. 

(Clarence  gets  coat,  comes  down  L.j 

Craig.    She's  wonderful ! 

Bean.    That's  right,  but  look  at  the  part  she's  got. 

Craig.     Oh,  yes. 

Bean.    She  don't  appreciate  that ! 

Craig.  Oh,  yes,  she  does.  (Rises,  takes  coat.) 
And  the  score — ^Joe's  music  goes  as  big  as  ever? 

Bean.     Immense.     Of  course  Joe  ain't  satisfied. 

Craig.     No  ? 

Bean.  But  that's  the  way  he  is — nothing  he  ever 
does  satisfies  him! 

(Clarence  exits,) 

Craig.  (Goes  up  l,)  That's  why  he's  an  artist, 
Manny ! 

Bean.  Well,  we're  all  right  for  the  New  York 

opening  if  you  are 

Craig.  What  do  you  mean — "if  you  are?" 

Bean.  I  mean,  will  that  new  theatre  of  yours  be 
ready? 

Craig.  It's  ready  now! 


48  DEAR   ME 

Bean.  It  is?  My  hat's  off  to  you!  I  thought 
you  were  crazy  to  get  that  old  failure,  Peck,  as  your 
architect. 

Craig.    You  don't  think  so  now,  eh? 

Bean.  Not  so  much — no.  The  theatre  is  beau- 
tiful, all  right.    Of  course  it's  a  little  old-fashioned. 

Craig.    What  do  you  mean,  old  fashioned? 

Bean.  Well,  there's  that  post  in  the  balcony, 
and 


Craig.    I  like  posts  in  the  balcony. 

Bean.    You  do? 

Craig.  Yes !  When  I  was  a  kid  all  the  theatres 
had  posts  in  the  balcony. 

Bean.  All  right,  Mr.  Prentice,  it's  your  theatre. 
It's  certainly  brought  Peck  a  new  lease  on  life,  and 
those  decorations  of  Lawton's  in  the  lobby  are — 
say,  all  right.  Say,  Mr.  Prentice,  you  just  saved 
those  fellows  from  the  Home — and  April — well,  she 
didn't  do  no  harm  the  day  she  balled  out  those  guys ! 

Craig.    Those  guys  ? 

Bean.    Well,  us  guys! 

Craig.  That's  better.  You're  sure  she  doesn't 
suspect?     She  still  thinks  you're  the  real  manager? 

Bean.  Say,  she  just  touched  me  for  five  hun- 
dred! 

Craig.    She  thinks  you're  the  manager,  all  right ! 

Bean.  You  know,  I  get  scared  sometimes  she  is 
liable  to  find  out  it  is  you  that's  done  It  all! 

Craig.  If  she  does,  Manny,  you're  booked  to  go 
back  to  the  home! 

Bean.  Yeh?  But  she  worries  me  to  death  asking 
questions.  When  are  you  going  to  tell  her  who  you 
are,  Mr.  Prentice? 

Craig.  That's  my  business,  Manny ;  all  you  have 
to  do  is  to  keep  your  mouth  shut! 

Bean.    Yeh,  but 

Craig.    I  know  it's  hard,  but  that's  what  you're 


DEAR   ME  49 

paid  for !  (Shakes  hands  with  Bean.  Bean  starts 
toward  the  door.)    What's  your  hurry? 

Bean.     I  don't  want  April  to  find  me  here  .  .  . 

Craig.  April?  Why,  she's  with  the  company, 
isn't  she  ? 

Bean.    No,  she's  in  town  .  .  • 

Craig.    What? 

Bean.    She  motored  in! 

Craig.     Motored  in?     (Crosses  to  window  R.j 

Bean.  Yes !  Oh,  yes,  you  can  sell  a  half-interest 
in  the  show  for  a  lot  of  money  if  you  want  to ! 

Craig.    (Pleased)    What  makes  you  think  so  ? 

Bean.  Because  there's  a  young  fellow  named 
Quail — loaded  with  dough — wants  to  buy  an  interest. 
He  motored  April  in  this  morning.  He's  just  crazy 
about  her.    Want  to  sell  him  an  interest  ? 

Craig.  No!  (Bean  exits  hurriedly,  laughing.) 
^' Quail!'' — (Thinks  of  it  again.) — ''Quail!''  (He 
is  very  sore.) 

(Clarence  enters.) 

Clarence.    I  go  now,  Mr.  Craig — something  else? 

Craig.    Yes. 

Clarence.    What? 

Craig.  Nothing!  (Clarence  in  fog  of  amaze- 
ment, stands  waiting.)  Well,  what  are  you  waiting 
for?  When  you  are  finished,  why  not  go?  (Clar- 
ence remains  silent,  crosses  to  h.)     Get  out! 

Clarence.  (Struts  toward  door,  stops)  Five  for 
dinner,  seven  o'clock. 

Craig.  No,  I'm  not  going  to  dine  at  home — the 
dinner's  off! 

Clarence.    Very  well,  sir !    (Exits,) 

(Craig  stands  still;  bus.  ad  lib.    There  is  a  knock  at 
the  door.    Craig,  hoping  that  it  may  be  April, 


50  DEAR   ME 

goes  quickly  to  the  door  and  opens  it;  he  is  dis- 
appointed to  find  it  is  Joe  RenardJ 

Craig.     Hello,  Joe! 
(Renard  enters,  speaking  almost  absent-mindedly.) 

Renard.    Ah,  so  you  are  here !     (Goes  to  piano.) 

Craig.  (Crosses  to  him;  slightly  hurt)  Well,  so 
are  you! 

Renard.  It  was  lucky — I  did  not  have  my  key. 
(He  hums  and  plays  three  or  four  notes,  then  takes 
from  his  pocket  a  flexible  music  pad  or  book  and  jots 
down  a  note  or  two  as  the  scene  proceeds.) 

Craig.  Say,  what's  the  trouble  with  you,  any- 
way? 

Renard.  Oh,  Edgar,  my  damn  composition! 
(Then  brilliantly)  In  the  taxi  I  got  the  idea. 
(Rises,  crosses  to  Edgar.J 

Craig.  Your  music  is  great,  Joe.  Why,  the  open- 
ing night  in  New  Haven,  when  I  sneaked  in,  they 
were  all  whistling  it ! 

Renard.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  it  gives  me 
pleasure  to  hear  the  American  people  whistle.  (Then 
with  a  worried  air.)  But  I  am  just  thinking  of  a 
counter-melody,   running  pum — ^pum — pum  against 

the  "Dear  Me"  number;  you  understand (He 

is  back  at  the  piano  again.)  Pum — Pum,  and  against 
it  pum — ^pum — pum — ^you  see — it  is  running  counter 
against  the  other  pum — pum. 

Craig.  You  have  nothing  running  against  me, 
have  you  ?    Where's  April  ? 

Renard.  (Crosses  to  table  c.)  April?  April 
and  I  we  do  not  speak ! 

Craig.    (Sees  up  and  back  of  table)    What? 

Renard.  We  eat  together — ^yes!  But  not  even 
"please  pass  the  salt"  do  we  say ! 

Craig.    What's  the  trouble? 

Renard.    Well,  when  we  are  alone  she  is  all  right. 


DEAR   ME  SI 

When  she  is  on  the  stage  and  Vm  in  the  pit  direct- 
ing— to  hell  with  Joe!     I  am  a  disgrace! 

Craig.  (Comes  down  front)  Wait  a  minute, 
Joe!  You're  liable  to  bust  this  trinity  right  down 
the  middle.     Now  tell  me,  where  is  April? 

Renard.  (Rises,  goes  r.)  I  am  her  director,  not 
her  nurse-maid ! 

Craig.    Oh,  Joe,  you  must  be  a  little  reasonable. 

Renard.  (Turns  toward  Craig. j  I  am  the  soul 
and  body  of  reason,  but  I  am  a  musician ! 

Craig.     What's  she? 

Renard.  A  woman!  That  much  I  learn  many 
times. 

Craig.  I  understand  what's  wrong!  Now,  Joe, 
look  me  in  the  eye.  I'm  right — I  see  a  little  green — 
right  in  the  corner  of  the  eye !  Confess,  Joe,  when 
you  hear  them  all  applaud  April  that  way — don't 
you  think,  perhaps,  you're  just  a  little  bit  jealous? 

Renard.  I — ^Joe — jealous  of  April?  (Laughs) 
Oh,  that  is  impossible !     (Laughs;  sits.) 

Craig.  Beware,  Joe,  of  the  green-eyed  monster! 
Why,  jealousy (Bus,;  going  up  stage ;^  then  re- 
covering himself,  comes  down,)  Who  is  this — 
Johnnie  you  picked  up  on  the  road? 

Renard.    Johnny — pick  up? 

Craig.  You  know  who  I  mean — name  is  Quail 
or  something — wants  to  buy  an  interest  in  the  show ! 

Renard.    Ah!    Hm!    Hm! 

Craig.    Yes — Hm! 

Renard.  I'm  not  the  one  who  is  jealous,  I  think 
— ^it's  you ! 

Craig.    Me!    Jealous  of  that  damned  fool? 

Renard.  (Rises,  crosses  to  Craig. J  Jealous  of 
anyone  who  wants  the  girl  you  love!  (Craig  turns 
quickly;  this  is  the  first  time  it  has  been  acknowledged 
between  them,)    You  love  April ! 

Craig.    I  ? 

Renard.    Yes !    She  don't  know  it,  but  Joe  knows 


52  DEAR   ME 

it ;  I  know  it  all  the  time.  You  can't  fool  old  Joe ! 
(He  pats  Craig  on  the  back.) 

Craig.    That's  right,  Joe. 

Renard.     (Murmurs)    Huh!     (Turns  to  go.) 

Craig.  (Takes  his  arm  and  holds  him  fast  while 
he  continues)  When  I  went  up  to  that  Home  that 
Dad  built  in  my  memory,  I  went  up  to  see  how  the 
old  codgers  were  making  out,  but  I  found  something 
else — I  found  April  .  .  .  (Joe  starts  hack  to 
piano.)  And  she  made  me  realize  that  something 
was  missing — happiness — ^and  I  found  that  happi- 
ness with  her.    But  now,  she's  been  away  from  me 

for  ten  days — ^and  I  miss  her Oh,  Joe,  you 

don't  know  how  I  miss  her! 

Renard.  (Is  hack  at  piano,  thinking  of  his  mu- 
sic)    Sure — sure  I  do! 

Craig.  (Following  him  up)  No,  you  don't.  I've 
sort  of  stopped  living  for  myself,  and  if  I  thought 
she'd  never  care  for  me,  I'd  never  want  to  live 
again.  And  the  day  she  says:  "I  love  you,"  I'll 
be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world — ^if  she  ever  says 
it !  Now  you  can  go  ahead — do  what  you  want,  I'm 
finished. 

Renard.  (Looking  up  from  the  music  he  is  writ- 
ing) Oh,  she'll  say  it  the  minute  she  finds  out  who 
you  are  and  what  you've  done  for  her.    (He  plays.) 

Craig.  Ah,  that's  exactly  what  I  donH  want!  I 
don't  want  her  to  love  Edgar  Prentice,  because  he 
has  built  a  theatre,  written  a  play  and  given  her  a 
chance — I  want  her  to  love  Edgar  Craig,  the  failure ! 

Renard.  Oh,  I  see.  (He  sings  pum-pum-pum, 
etc.,  and  nods  his  head  keeping  time.) 

Craig.  (Trying  to  get  his  sympathy,  crosses  to 
c.)  Now  you  can  understand  why  I  went  up  in  the 
air  about  this  fellow — this  Johnnie ! 

Renard.  (Rising  from  piano)  Edgar,  how  long 
since  you  see  April  ? 


DEAR   ME  53 

Craig.  Ten  days!  You  know  as  well  as  I  do. 
Why,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  it? 

Renard.     She  change! 

Craig.     April — changed !     How  ? 

Renard.  She  isn't  the  old  April — she's  the  whole 
damn  calendar.  (Turns  to  window.)  Look,  her 
geraniums — ^they  have  die. 

Craig.    Well,  she's  been  away ! 

Renard.    They  die  before  she  go. 

Craig.  (Thoughtfully)  Yes,  I  suppose  she's  for- 
gotten all  about  them. 

Renard.    She  forget  more  than  the  geraniums ! 

(Without  knocking  April  enters,  handsomely 
gowned.  She  stands  in  the  door  for  a  moment 
or  two  trying  vainly  to  hide  the  fact  that  she  is 
pleased  with  the  effect  that  she  is  creating  upon 
Craig.) 

Craig.    April ! 

April.  (Coming  down  c.)  And  all  the  morning 
papers  said:  "Scarcely  in  the  history  of  this  city 
has  such  an  ovation  been  accorded  as  April  Blair 
received  last  night."  There  are  my  Bridgeport, 
Hartford,  New  Haven  and  Stamford  notices. 
(Hands  an  envelope  to  Craig.  J 

Renard.    Ugh ! 

April.  (Tosses  her  head  at  Renard's  remark 
and  turns  to  CraigJ  And  you  never  came  to  see 
me  play ! 

Craig.    (Softly)    I  wanted  to. 

April.  Well,  why  didn't  you  ?  Ah,  forgive  me — 
you  couldn't  afford  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  because 
you  didn't  care! 

Craig.    Didn't  care — why,  I By  George,  you 

look  wonderful! 

April.    Did  you  miss  me  ? 

Craig.     Miss  you  ?    Did  I ! 


54  DEAR   ME 

April.  Now  that  rm  back,  I  wish  I'd  written 
oftener.     (Sits,) 

Craig.  The  postcard  from  Bridgeport — ^with  the 
picture  of  the  City  Hall — was  appreciated. 

April.     I  sent  you  one  from  New  Haven,  too ! 

Craig.     Never  got  it. 

April.     Oh,  I  didn't  send  it! 

Craig.    Maybe  that's  why  I  never  got  it ! 

April.  But  I  was  awfully  busy  in  New  Haven. 
A  lot  of  people  came  back  stage  and  you  know,  Ed- 
gar, everybody  wanted  a  photograph.  I  think  I'll 
send  them  one.  Manny  said  we  should  keep  our  ad- 
mirers, and  the  easiest  way  is  to  send  them  photo- 
graphs. You  know,  he  thinks  I  ought  to  go  into 
moving  pictures. 

Renard.     (Turns  at  this)    Mon  Dieuf 

Craig.    You  are  not  thinking  of  doing  it? 

April.  I  haven't  thought  of  anything.  I've  been 
so  busy  rehearsing  with  Joe! 

Renard.    Oh — you're  a  baby ! 

April.  I'm  not  a  baby !  (Joe  and  April  start  in 
ad  lib.  fight.) 

Craig.  Now,  just  wait  a  minute — ^you  two  can't 
go  on  this  way. 

April.    Fm  not  going  on — it's  Joe ! 

Renard.     Hear  her ! 

Craig.  Now,  just  what  is  the  trouble?  (Both 
start  in  noisily.)    We'll  hear  from  April  first. 

April.    Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Edgar !    In  the  second 

act  there's  a  song Come  here,  Joe — play  for 

Edgar.     (Goes  to  piano.) 

Renard.  Play,  play !  Play  it  yourself !  I'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  this — ^this  demonstration ! 

Craig.  But  you  realize  you  should  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  don't  you?  I  see  you  do!  Now  help 
April! 


DEAR   ME  SS 

(April  starts  to  pick  a  note  or  two,  then  looks  at 
JoE^  as  if  asking  him  to  play  it,) 

Renard.  (Going  to  the  piano)  Oh — ^a  piano  was 
invented  by  the  devil ! 

April.  Now,  no  more  fighting — we'll  leave  it  to 
Edgar ! 

Renard.  That  suits  me !  (Starts  to  play,  finishes 
the  vamp,  and  April  begins  to  sing.) 

Craig.  (After  s^ong)  Is  that  the  way  she  sings 
it  on  the  stage? 

April.  Yes,  of  course  that's  the  way  I  sing  it  on 
the  stage. 

Renard.  No  !  That  is  the  way  I  wanted  her  to 
sing  it ! 

Craig.  Then  you're  both  right — ^now  then,  come 
here — come  here.  (Renard  crosses  to  Craig.)  And 
you,  April!  (April  comes  over.)  Now,  then,  say 
you're  sorry! 

Renard.     (Puts  his  arms  around  AprilJ    April ! 

April.    It's  all  right,  Joe,  I  forgive  you ! 

Craig.     Ah,  the  trinity! 

April.     The  trinity! 

Craig.    Enjoy  your  motor  trip? 

April.  (Breaks  away)  Oh,  I  forgot!  Good 
heavens !  (Goes  to  window.)  Edgar,  do  you  mind 
if  I  bring  up  a  friend? 

Craig.    Certainly  not — why  should  I? 

April.  (Leans  out  and  calls)  Oh,  Dudley! 
Dudley! 

Renard.  (He  and  Craig  exchange  a  significant 
look)    April's  fool! 

April.  Dudley — ^hoo — ^hoo !  (Comes  back  in  the 
room,  looks  around  for  something  to  throw  down.) 
He  can't  hear  me  .  .  .  (Sees  the  geraniums — pulls 
out  one  plant.) 

Craig.    April!    The  geraniums! 


S6  DEAR   ME 

April.  Oh,  they're  dead!  (Turns  and  flings  it 
down.) 

Craig.    Throw  him  a  book  and  let  him  read ! 

April.  Come  up,  Dudley — second  floor  front! 
(Turns  into  the  room,  brushing  the  dirt  from  her 
dress  and  hands.) 

Craig.    Dudley  ? 

April.  Dudley  Masters  Quail!  And  his  father 
has  all  the  money  in  Connecticut! 

Renard.    Johnny  Pick-up! 

April.  Joe,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  about  him 
that  way.  Edgar,  he  isn't  half  bad.  I've  really 
brought  him  here  to  meet  you,  because  if  he  should 
take  a  fancy  to  you,  with  all  his  money  there's  no 
telling  what  he  mightn't  do  for  you! 

Craig.     Where  did  you  meet  him? 

April.  In  Bridgeport — Mr.  Bean  introduced  him 
to  me. 

Craig.    Mr.  Bean?    Oh — he  did! 

April.  But  you'll  like  him !  (Knock  at  door;  all 
turn.) 

Craig.  There's  no  question  about  my  liking  him ; 
if  he's  your  friend  he's  my  friend.  I  can  hardly 
wait  for  him  to  come  in  that  door.  I  want  to  say 
"welcome"  ... 

(Dudley  enters.) 

April.    He's  so  different  from  other  men  .  .  . 

Craig.    (To  Joe j    So  he  is ! 

April.  Dudley,  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Craig — 
I've  told  you  about  him ! 

Dudley.  (To  April,  sotfo  voce)  Oh,  the  fail- 
ure fellow !    How  are  you  ? 

Craig.  Oh,  I'm  failing  pretty  well  to-day — ^how 
are  you  failing? 

Dudley.     (Crossing  to  RenardJ     Hello,  Joey ! 

Craig.     Hello,  Joey?     He  is  getting  on.     I  beg 


DEAR   ME  57 

your  pardon.    (To  Dudley  j    Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

Dudley.  (Gazing  about  the  ceiling)  Thanks — 
oh,  thanks  awfully! 

Craig.  (After  he  has  followed  Dudley's  gaze  for 
a  moment)  If  you  are  looking  for  the  leak,  it's 
over  here.     And  the  chairs  are  here ! 

Dudley.    Course  it  is.     Thanks.     (Sits.) 

April.  Dudley,  this  is  where  we  got  our  start; 
we  used  to  call  it  the  "workshop,"  didn't  we,  Edgar? 

Edgar.    Yes,  we  used  to. 

April.  Oh,  those  were  wonderful  days — ^and 
sometimes  we  had  to  make  a  bottle  of  milk  go  a  long 
way. 

Renard.    Those  days  are  over,  thank  the  Lord! 

April.  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  forget  them, 
even  after  the  opening,  when  I'm  a  famous  star  and 
Joe's  a  great  composer — and  Edgar — dear  old  Ed- 
gar— when  you  have  one  of  your  plays  produced. 

(There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  then  as,  Craig  opens 
a  box  of  cigarettes  and  passes  them  to  Dudley  J 

Craig.     Smoke  ? 

Dudley.    What  are  they? 

Craig.    Cigarettes. 

Dudley.  (Examines  the  cigarettes,  then  sinks 
back)     No,  thanks,  I  have  my  own ! 

Craig.  We  all  have  our  peculiarities.  I'm  very 
sorry  I  haven't  something  alcoholic  to  offer  you! 

Dudley.    I  seldom  drink,  thanks. 

Craig.    Maybe  a  little  tea  would  buck  you  up? 

April.  Splendid  idea,  Edgar,  I'm  glad  you  thought 
about  it. 

Renard.    A  good  idea,  Edgar.     I  make  it ! 

Craig.  Perhaps  I'd  better  help  you — I  know 
where  the  things  are ! 

Renard.  (Starts  toward  the  door)  I  find  him 
even  in  the  darkness.     (Exits,) 


S8  DEAR   ME 

(Craig  to  r.  of  stage,  turns  to  look  at  April  and 
Dudley.  They  are  having  a  little  private  con- 
versation, looking  at  a  photograph  in  kodak  al- 
bum, and  animated.) 

Craig.  (Regards  them  for  a  moment)  It's  a  very 
early  Autumn  we're  having,  isn't  it? 

Dudley.    (Annoyed)    What? 

Craig.     I  said  the  Autumn ! 

Dudley.     Oh,  yes. 

Craig.  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  you  came 
from  Bridgeport,  Mr.  Quail — Bridgeport? 

Dudley.     Connecticut ! 

Craig.  I  thought  you  said  Bridgeport.  I  used 
to  have  some  friends — I  say  I  used  to  have  some 
friends,  I  still  have  some  friends — very  dear  friends 
— who  had  a  summer  home  .  .  . 

Dudley.  (With  contempt)  That's  not  so  odd — 
millions  of  people  have  summer  homes ! 

Craig.  That's  so — just  a  slip  of  mine — I  hadn't 
thought  of  that !  (Crash  heard  off  stage,)  Joe,  mak- 
ing tea  ...  (Ad  lib.  conversation — Craig  standing 
at  L.,  Dudley  and  April  on  opposite  side  of  table 
in  ardent  conversation,  paying  no  attention  to 
Craig's  presence.  Craig's  ^'rambling'*  follows.) 
You  see,  Joe's  French — he  came  from  the  South  of 
France — if  you  remember  your  geography  as  well 
as  I  recall  mine,  you  will  recall  that  France  is  shaped 
like  that.  Joe  lived  about  there — down  in  the  South- 
ern part.  In  the  little  town  where  Joe  comes  from 
the  natives  as  a  rule  drink  coffee !  (Laughs — alone.) 
Ah,  you  can't  catch  me  like  that — I  didn't  say  all, 
I  said,  "as  a  rule  they  drink  coffee."  (Laughs 
again.)  So,  you  see,  Joe's  knowledge  of  tea-making 
is  very  limited,  so  naturally  when  we  have  friends 
drop  in  unexpectedly  of  an  afternoon,  as  you 
dropped  in  to-day,  why,  I  have  been  the  one  to  make 
the  tea;  but  on  this  occasion  Joe  thought  it  would 


DEAR   ME  59 

be  nice  if  I  stayed  out  here — and  talked  a  while  to 
myself.  But  if  you'll  excuse  me — ^you'll  excuse  me? 
(Stands  for  a  moment,  no  reply;  after  another  mo- 
ment, and  with  a  killing  look,  he  exits.) 

(April  and  Dudley  converse  about  nothing  for  a 
moment.) 

April.  (Laughs,  turns,  surprised  at  Craig^s  de- 
parture)   Why,  Edgar's  gone ! 

Dudley.  I  say,  April,  if  Tm  going  to  make  you 
the  sort  of  a  star  you  deserve  to  be,  you  really  ought 
to  cut  this  sort  of  thing  out. 

April.    Why,  Dudley,  these  people  are  old  friends. 

Dudley.  That's  very  pretty  sentiment,  but  it  isn't 
business.  People  judge  you  by  where  you  go ;  what 
would  mother  say  if  she  could  see  you  trapsing  out 
of  this  awful  place?  Let's  make  our  excuses  and 
go! 

April.  But,  Dudley,  they've  asked  us  to  tea! 
(Takes  his  hat  and  stick  and  puts  them  on  the  piano.) 

Dudley.  All  right;  but  I'll  bet  they  have  con- 
densed mJlk  for  tea,  and  I  hate  it!  You  can't  be 
anybody — or  get  anywhere — if  you  have  dependents 
like  these  people.  Suppose  I  had  some  smart  friends 
from  Bridgeport  at  the  stage  door  some  night,  and 
your  old  failure  fellow  should  take  it  into  his  head 
to  come  around — how  would  you  feel — ^how  would  I 
feel  ?    You  really  should  give  them  up ! 

April.     Give  up  the  trinity? 

Dudley.  As  we  advance  we  pass  the  more  lowly, 
and  you — you  have  advanced.     (Goes  to  her.) 

April.     (Rises,  crosses  to  c.)    Yes,  I  have. 

Dudley.  (Crosses  to  her)  And  I'm  going  to  put 
you  on  the  highest  rung — if  I  have  to  spend  all  of 
mother's  money.  But,  April,  I  can't  wait  until  you 
really  arrive  to  tell  you  .  .  . 


6o  DEAR   ME 

April.  Now,  Dudley,  stop!  I  know  that  tone! 
You're  about  to  propose  to  me  again. 

Dudley.  (Crosses  to  her)  I  was!  And  Vm 
going  to  keep  right  at  it ! 

April.  Dudley,  please !  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you 
again  that  love  and  I  are  far  apart.  Do  you  remem- 
ber that  line  of  Kipling's — "He  travels  fastest  who 
travels  alone!" 

Dudley.  But,  April,  you  promised  you'd  give 
me  your  answer. 

April.  On  Wednesday  night,  after  the  opening, 
when  I  know  the  verdict. 

(Renard  enters,) 

Renard.  Oh,  here  comes  the  handsome  waiter. 
Clear  off  the  corner  of  the  table,  April !  (There  is  a 
general  movement.  The  tea  paraphernalia  is  set  out 
as  the  following  happens;  when  Renard  is  pouring 
the  tea  he  has  can  of  condensed  milk  in  his  other 
hand.)  Now  we  have  some  wonderful  French-Rus- 
sian tea!  (Turning  to  Dudley. J  You  like  lemon 
in  your  tea,  Mr.  Quail? 

Dudley.     Yes,  indeed ! 

Renard.  Oh,  a  lot  of  people  do.  But  we  use 
condensed  milk. 

April.  (When  all  are  seated,  waiting  for  tea) 
Oh,  Edgar,  are  there  any  more  of  those  cunning 
little  cakes  ?  (Gives  Renard  his  tea.  Renard  goes 
to  piano.) 

Craig.  I  haven't  made  any  since  you've  been  away. 

Dudley.    Do  you  cookf 

Craig.  Well,  not  professionally,  Mr.  Bird — Quail 
— ^but  I  cook ! 

Dudley.     That  is  an  accomplishment! 

Craig.  I'm  sure  I  want  to  thank  you  for  looking 
after  Miss  Blair. 

Dudley.    Greatest  pleasure  in  the  world. 


DEAR   ME  6i 

Craig.    Really? 

Dudley.  Really,  quite.  (Sips  tea,  makes  grim- 
ace.) 

Craig.    Killed  him ! 

Dudley.  (Goes  r.  to  piano,  gets  hat  cmd  cane 
and  comes  back  to  April,  j  But  we  must  be  toddling ! 
(To  Craig^  As  I've  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Pren- 
tice. 

Craig.     Mr.  Prentice? 

Dudley.    Yes,  the  author  of  the  little  girl's  show. 

Renard.  You  have  an  appointment  with  Mr. 
Prentice  ? 

Craig.  You  have  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Pren- 
tice? 

Dudley.  Yes — yes !  I'm  going  to  his  house  with 
— er — Mr.  Bean.  I  expect  to  buy  an  interest  in  the 
play ! 

Craig.     (Goes  up  c.  a  little)    Oh,  you  do,  eh? 

Dudley.  (Crosses  to  AprilJ  Yes,  I  thought  I'd 
take  April  along  and  introduce  her.  (Crosses  to 
Craig.J  Odd  thing,  you  know,  she's  making  all 
kinds  of  success  in  his  show,  and  she's  never  seen 
him. 

Craig.  (To  Renardj  That  is  odd!  (To  Dud- 
ley J    Do  you  know  Mr.  Prentice? 

Dudley.  Oh,  yes  .  ,  .  (Craig  winks  at  Re- 
NARD.J  That  is,  when  I  say  I  know  him  I  don't 
exactly  remember  meeting  him,  but  so  many  of  my 
friends  are  his  friends,  that  it's  just  the  same  as 
knowing  him,  don't  you  think? 

Craig.  (Mutters  something,  nodding  his  head) 
Better  than  knowing  him. 

Dudley.  Charming  fellow — no  end  of  money, 
and  all  that.  We'll  he  sure  to  find  him  in  at  tea 
time. 

Craig.  (To  Renard,  crossing  l.j  Always  home 
at  tea  time — bring  your  condensed  milk,  Joe.  We'll 
drop  in. 


62  DEAR   ME 

Dudley.  Come,  April.  We'll  miss  Mr.  Prentice 
if  you  don't  hurry ! 

April.  All  right.  Oh,  Dudley,  I  want  to  show 
you  my  old  room.  It's  across  the  hall.  Joe  and 
Edgar  live  in  here.  I  suppose  I'd  still  be  living 
here  if  Manny  hadn't  insisted  I  go  to  a  fashionable 
hotel. 

Dudley.    The  only  thing,  April ! 

April.  Of  course.  This  place  wouldn't  do  any 
more,  but  we  did  have  good  times.  Good-bye,  Ed- 
gar! 

Craig.     Good-bye ! 

April.  (To  Craigj  I'll  try  to  run  in  to-mor- 
row ;  that  is,  if  I  can.  (To  JoeJ  I'll  see  you  at  the 
theatre,  Joe.  You  understand  what's  taking  me 
away,  don't  you,  Edgar? 

Craig.  Oh,  yes,  I  understand  what's  taking  you 
away! 

April.    Good-bye ! 

(Dudley  and  April  exit,  Craig  and  Renard  watch 
her  go;  then  Craig  stands  looking  down  at  the 
desk,  tearing  up  a  piece  of  paper.  Renard  goes 
up  to  door  and  closes  it.) 

Craig.  You  understand  what's  taking  her  away, 
didn't  you,  Joe? 

Renard.    Yes,  and  it  serves  you  right ! 

Craig.    Why? 

Renard.  Because  you're  a  fool — you  make  me 
angry  with  you.  Why  didn't  you  tell  her  who  you 
are? 

Craig.    I  don't  want  her  gratitude  ? 

Renard.  (Sits  r.  of  table  c)  God  knows  what 
you  want — I  don't! 

Craig.    (Crosses  up  c.)    Well,  I  do ! 

Renard.    You  do?    What  is  it? 

Craig.    (Comes  down  r.  of  RenardJ    Well,  I'll 


DEAR   ME  63 

tell  you  what  it  is.  I  wanted  her  to  be  glad  to  get 
back  to  us.  Of  course  I  know  she  couldn't  stay 
here  now,  but  I  did  hope  that  she'd  want  to.  Oh, 
well (Goes  up  to  r.) 

Renard.  Oh,  well !  Now  you  make  me  mad  all 
over  again! 

Craig.  Well,  what  do  I  care  whether  you're  mad 
or  not  ? 

Renard.  (Rises,  crosses  to  him)  Oh,  Edgar,  I 
ask  you — do  try  to  have  a  little  sense !  Don't  go  on 
expecting  the  impossible!  April  isn't  an  angel — 
she's  just  human.  A  month  ago  she  was  nobody. 
Now,  in  a  minute,  you  make  her  famous — ^you  turn 
her  head  all  around  and  then  expect  her  to  want  to 
come  back  here.  Now  why  don't  you  tell  her  who 
you  are  ? 

Craig.     No,  not  yet — not  yet! 

Renard.  Well,  if  you  don't  tell  her  who  you  are, 
then  tell  her  you  love  her. 

Craig.     How  ? 

Renard.  Say,  April,  you  are  a  success — I  am  a 
failure,  but  my  God,  how  I  love  you !  If  you  don't 
tell  her,  I  tell  her  everything ! 

Craig.    Oh,  no,  you  won't! 

Renard.    I  will  if  you  don't  tell  her  you  love  her. 

Craig.  Oh,  you  will?  All  right,  I'll  tell  her  I 
love  her. 

Renard.    You  promise? 

Craig.  (Goes  up  l.)  Yes,  I  promise,  if  she  ever 
comes  back! 

Renard.  (Seeing  the  notices,  goes  to  table)  She 
will.     Oh,  not  to  see  you. 

Craig.     (Goes  down  to  table)     What? 

Renard.  These!  Her  press  clippings!  (Craig 
looks  puzded.)  Her  first  press  clippings!  Right 
now  she's  hunting  for  them,  and  Dudley's  turning 
his  pockets  out.  Maybe  she  wants  to  show  them 
to  the  taxi  driver  1 


64  DEAR   ME 

Craig.  Maybe  you're  right,  but  I  don't  think  so. 
Clarence !  Oh,  I  let  him  go.  Well,  who's  going  to 
wash  the  tea  things  ? 

Renard.     I  will. 

Craig.  Oh,  no,  you  won't !  We  do  it  like  every- 
thing else — fifty-fifty !  (Takes  out  coin,)  We'll  toss 
— ^heads  you  wash  them,  tails  I  wash  them.  (Tosses 
coin,  looks  at  it,  picks  up  dishes.)  This  has  been 
my  lucky  day,  all  right !  (Exits.  Big  crash  of  dishes 
heard  off  stage.  Off  stage)  Ha,  ha !  I  don't  have 
to  wash  them  now ! 

(Renard  at  piano  working  on  composition.    April* 
enters.     She  stands  for  a  moment.) 

Renard.  (Handing  her  the  clippings)  Here  are 
the  dear  babies ! 

April.  (At  first  gives  him  an  angry  glance;  then 
smiles  and  takes  clippings)  Oh,  thank  you!  Did 
Edgar  read  them? 

Renard.     No — ^he  was  too  busy! 

April.  (Looks  at  him  a  moment,  then  goes  up  to 
door)     Where  is  he? 

Renard.    Do  you  want  to  speak  to  him? 

April.  Well,  I'm  in  quite  a  hurry.  I  don't  want 
to  keep  Mr.  Quail  waiting. 

Renard.    That  doesn't  sound  like  the  old  April! 

April.  Old  April !  You  don't  mean  that  person 
who  used  to  work  for  Mrs.  Carney? 

Renard.    That's  what  I  mean ! 

April.  You're  right !  Please  don't  ever  mention 
her  again. 

Renard.    Who — Mrs.  Carney? 

April.  No — the  old  April !  Ugh !  That's  like  a 
bad  dream! 

Renard.  Maybe  I  mean  the  April  who  used  to 
come  here  every  morning  to  water  the  geraniums — 
eh?  ' 


DEAR   ME  6s 

April.  (Crosses  up,  takes  look  at  them,  comes 
down  to  RenardJ  Joe,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
annoying — why  do  you  say  these  things?  What  are 
you  thinking  about? 

Renard.     Vm  thinking  about  our  friend — Edgar. 

April.  Ah — I  understand!  You  have  decided 
that  I  am  ungrateful!  Well,  Vm  not!  If  you  care 
to  know,  Vm  very  grateful !  And  all  I  wish  is  there 
was  some  way  I  could  show  it! 

Renard.    I  guess  maybe  there  is! 

April.  Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what 
it  is! 

Renard.  I  don't  suppose  we  see  you  so  very 
much  any  more — from  now  on? 

April.  Oh,  no,  that's  it.  You  want  me  to  come 
back  here  and  live  in  that — that  hole  across  the 
hall? 

Renard.    It  ain't  a  hole ! 

April.  Oh,  why  do  you  pester  this  way?  For 
months  I  heard  nothing  from  Edgar  except,  "Work, 
work  hard  now,  so  you  can  get  ahead ;  run  up  to  the 
Museum  so  you  will  be  able  to  say  something  worth 
while  about  art;  come  to  this  concert,  go  to  that 
play" — and  why  ?  He  wanted  me  to  get  ahead,  didn't 
he? 

Renard.     Sure !     But 

April.  And  now  that  I'm  up,  and  getting  ahead, 
you  tell  me  to  forget  it  and  come  back  here.  (Rises.) 
My  life  is  my  life,  and  I  can  only  live  it  one  way! 
Now  do  you  want  me  to  close  the  show  and  come 
back  here?  Will  that  show  how  grateful  I  am? 
(Goes  R.) 

Renard.    April!    April! 

April.  Well,  for  Heaven's  sake  what  shall  I  do? 
I'll  give  it  up  if  only  to  make  -ou  stop  harping! 
(Ad  lib.  April  and  Renard.J 

(Craig  has  entered  during  her  last  speech,  and  he 


66  DEAR   ME 

stands  listening.     Now  he  steps  out  and  in  a 
careless  way,  coming  down  c.) 

Craig.    Hello ! 

April.    Oh,  Edgar!    Listen!    Am  I  ungrateful? 

Craig.     Ungrateful!     Certainly  not! 

April.  (Crosses  to  RenardJ  You  see — he  says 
I'm  not ! 

Renard.  Ugh!  He  says!  He  says!  He  is  a 
fool !     (Exits  into  next  room.) 

April.    Oh ! 

Craig.     Now  what's  the  trouble? 

April.     I'm  so  unhappy!     (Sits  l.  of  table  c.) 

Craig.    Why,  April,  what's  ifall  about? 

April.    Well,  do^you  want  me  to  be  a  success  ? 

Craig.    Don't  you  know  I  do  ? 

April.  And  you  don't  think  I  ought  to  give  it  all 
up  and  come  back  here  to  live  ? 

Craig.    What  are  you  talking  about? 

April.  If  I  tried  to  make  the  most  of  myself 
would  I  be  ungrateful? 

Craig.    Ungrateful  ?    To  whom  ? 

April.    To  you  and  Joe — for  what  you've  done ! 

Craig.    Certainly  not! 

April.  Then  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do — make 
the  most  of  myself ! 

Craig.  That's  what  I  always  hoped  you  would 
do. 

April.  And  you  won't  say  any  mean  things,  like 
Joe  does,  if  I'm  too  busy  to  see  much  of  you? 

Craig.     I  won't  say  mean  things ! 

April.  Oh,  it's  such  a  relief  to  talk  to  you.  You 
seem  to  understand  so  much  better  than  anyone  else ! 

Craig.    I  do. 

April.    Well,  then,  I  must  be  going. 

Craig.     Oh,  April! 

April.    I  have  so  many  things  to  do.     (Goes  up 

R.) 


DEAR   ME  67 

Craig.  April,  you  just  said  that  I  understood 
better  than  anyone  else.  Have  you  ever  wondered 
why? 

April.  No — why,  no!  Fve  never  thought  any- 
thing about  that.     I  suppose — it's  because  .  .  . 

Craig.     Because  I  love  you! 

April.  Why,  Edgar,  I  didn't  expect  you  to  say 
that! 

Edgar.     Didn't  you  want  me  to? 

April.  It's  wonderful  to  know  there  is  some- 
body you  can  reach  out  to  for  sympathy — for  en- 
couragement! And  to  me  you've  been  that  person. 
Let's  keep  it  that  way ! 

Craig.    And  would  that  make  you  happy  ? 

April.     I  think  so. 

Craig.    Well,  then,  that's  the  way  it  will  be ! 

April.  Oh,  I'd  give  anything  if  this  hadn't  hap- 
pened! It  makes  me  feel  as  though  we  had  come 
to  a  sort  of  a  parting  of  the  ways.  I'm  going 
ahead  .  .  . 

Craig.     While  I'm  staying  here! 

April.     Oh,  Edgar! 

Craig.  I  mean  I'll  have  to  stay  so  you'll  know 
where  to  find  me  if  you  feel  like  "reaching  out  for 
encouragement." 

April.  (Long  pause,  then  she  opens  her  pocket- 
hook,  takes  out  letter)  Oh,  Edgar,  all  this  has  made 
it  so  difficult  for  me  to  do  what  I've  been  thinking 

about  for  days.    I've  written  you  a  note (Craig 

starts  to  open  same.)     No,  don't  open  it  now — not 
until  I've  gone. 

Craig.     Why  ? 

April.    Oh,  I  couldn't  be  here  when  you  read  it. 

Craig.    Oh ! 

April.  And  promise  you  won't  misunderstand 
what  I've  written? 

Craig.     I  promise! 
I      Dudley.    (Off  stage)    I  say — April ! 


68  DEAR   ME 

April.     Coming,  Dudley!     (Exits.) 

(Craig  stands  dazed  for  a  moment;  then  he  looks 
at  the  letter  in  his  hand  and  weighs  it.  He  is 
afraid  to  open  it,  being  a  mortal  coward.  He 
crosses  slowly  and  stands  considering  it. 
Renard  enters;  he  is  delightfully  curious;  he 
looks  out,  then  looks  at  Craig^  who  does  not 
notice  his  entrance.) 

Renard.     Well,  did  you  tell  her? 

Craig.    Yes. 

Renard.     Well,  what  did  she  say? 

Craig.    (Regarding  the  letter)    Nothing ! 

Renard.    What  did  she  do? 

Craig.    Left  me  this  ! 

Renard.  This  note?  (Craig  nods.)  What  did 
she  write? 

Craig.  I  don't  know.  She  told  me  not  to  open 
it  until  she  had  gone — ^and  then  not  to  be  "mis- 
understood." 

Renard.    But  she's  gone — why  don't  you  open  it  ? 

Craig.     Because  I'm  afraid! 

Renard.    Afraid  of  what? 

Craig.    Of  what  she's  written. 

Renard.    What  are  you  talking  about? 

Craig.  She's  gone,  Joe,  gone !  And  I  don't  think 
I'll  ever  see  her  again! 

Renard.     What? 

Craig.    That  is — here! 

Renard.    Yes,  you  will!     (Starts  off.) 

Craig.  Wait  a  moment,  Joe!  Where  are  you 
going? 

Renard.  I'm  going  to  get  April  and  tell  her  every- 
thing ! 

Craig.  No,  you're  not !  Joe,  I  want  you  to  prom- 
ise me  one  thing — never  tell  her  who  I  am.  On 
your  word  of  honor.    (They  shake  hands.)    Thanks, 


DEAR   ME  69 

Joe.  She  told  me  not  to  misunderstand.  Well,  I 
won't !  But  I  am  not  man  enough  to  open  that  fool 
letter  and  settle  one  thing  in  my  own  mind ! 

Renard.  ril  open  it!  (Makes  as  if  to  take  the 
note.) 

Craig.  No,  you  won't !  I'll  open  it !  (Sits,  stares 
at  the  note,  still  reluctant,  Renard  goes  up  stage, 
pours  a  glass  of  water  at  the  tea  things,  comes  back 
to  Craig^s  side  with  it.  Craig  looks  at  the  water,) 
What's  that  for? 

Renard.    I'm  thirsty!     (Drinks.) 

(Craig  rips  open  the  note.  It  contains  a  fifty-dollar 
bill  and  a  theatre  ticket.  They  may  either  fall 
to  the  floor  or  Craig  may  take  them  and  place 
them  on  the  table,  as  best  proved  in  rehearsal. 
Then  Craig  reads  the  note,  and  suddenly  begins 
to  laugh  almost  hysterically.  Renard  regards 
him  with  wonderment.) 

Craig.    Well,  I'll  be  damned! 
Renard.    Sure,  why  not? 

(Craig  starts  to  laugh,  then  tries  to  control  himself 
and  reads  the  note,  then  laughs  again.) 

Renard.    What  is 

Craig.    Look — what's  that?     (Holds  out  bill.) 

Renard.    Money — fifty  dollars ! 

Craig.  Right  you  are !  (Starts  to  read  the  note, 
then  starts  to  laugh.)  Now,  listen  to  this !  (Reads) 
"Dear  You  : 

"The  enclosed  fifty  dollars  is  only  a  loan,  please 
don't  think  anything  else.  But  buy  yourself  a  dress- 
suit  and  come  to  my  opening  like  a  regular  first- 
nighter.  P.  S."  (Speaks)  She  never  wrote  a  note 
without  one!  (Reads)  "The  ticket  is  the  best  I 
could  gtt — even  with  all  my  influence."    (Picks  up 


70  DEAR   ME 

the  ticket.  Renard  is  a  little  sore.)  Wait  a  mo- 
ment, Joe,  before  you  get  angry  about  nothing.  I 
want  you  to  do  something  for  me — look  at  that 
ticket !  (Holds  it  off  at  arm's  length,  while  Renard 
peers  at  it.)  I  know  it  is  the  balcony — ^because  it's 
green — but  tell  me,  what's  the  number — careful, 
now — the  seat  number — don't  make  a  mistake ! 

Renard.    It  says — C. 

Craig.  I  knew  it — but  the  seat  number,  Joe,  the 
seat  number! 

Renard.     Fourteen — 14 ! 

Craig.  (In  a  final  burst  of  laughter)  I  knew  it 
— I  knew  it!  My  own  theatre,  my  own  show,  and 
she  sends  me  the  only  seat  in  the  house  behind  a 
post!  (Sits,  weak  with  laughter,  but  he  is  midway 
between  mirth  and  breaking  down.  Renard  sees 
the  joke;  begins  to  laugh.) 


CURTAIN 


ACT   III 


Scene  I — The  dressing-room  at  the  Fifty-first  Street 
Theatre. 

It  is  the  star's  dressing-room,  set  in  the  c.  of  the 
stage  with  black  drops  on  each  side.  It  is  set 
on  casters,  or  so  it  can  he  struck  very  quickly. 
The  entrance  is  in  the  c.  hack.  There  is  a  door 
off  L.  leading  to  another  dressing-room.  Be- 
side the  dressing-table  there  is  a  screen  across 
one  corner;  hack  of  this  hang  April''s  costumes, 
etc. 

The  action  he  gins  at  the  end  of  the  Second  Act.  The 
lights  he  fore  the  dressing-tahle  are  hlasing; 
there  are  flowers  in  the  room,  a  profusion  of 
them. 

The  Maid  is  husy  ah  out  the  dressing-tahle ;  from 
off  stage  comes  the  muffled  applause;  the  Maid 
stops,  listens,  then  goes  to  door  and  opens  it. 
The  applause  grows  louder.  She  closes  the 
door  and  hurries  on  with  her  business  of  get- 
ting ready  for  the  change.  She  is  much  busier 
now,  for  April  imll  he  coming  in  a  moment. 

When  April  does  not  appear  the  Maid  rather  sub- 
sides; she  cannot  understand  this  delay.  She 
goes  to  the  door,  opens  it  and  is  met  by  another 
burst  of  applause.  This  rather  astonishes  her. 
She  goes  hack,  tries  to  busy  herself,  expecting 
April  any  moment;  she  is  slightly  concerned 
now.  She  goes  to  the  door  again — another 
burst  of  applause  as  she  opens  the  door.    Then 


^2  DEAR   ME 

she  begins  to  preen  herself;  she  is  a  little  strutty; 

she  is  again  busying  herself  about  nothing  when 

the  door  bursts  open  and 
April  enters.    She  shuts  door  behind  her  and  starts 

across  to  the  dressing-table.    The  Maid  follows 

her.    As  the  Maid  starts  to  take  off  something, 

April  flings  her  hands  aside. 
There  is  a  knock  at  door.     Maid  goes  to  answer. 

Enter  Maid.    People  passing  door.    "Yes,  right 

in  there.''    Usher  enters,  talks  to  Maid. 

April.     What  did  the  usher  say  ? 

Maid.    He  said  nobody  occupied  the  seat ! 

April.    Go  tell  Mr.  Bean  I  want  to  see  him ! 

Maid.     But (Seeing  anger  of  April,  she 

starts  toward  door.) 

April.  (Seeing  note  on  dressing-table)  What's 
this? 

Maid.  (Gives  note  to  AprilJ  It  was  just  sent 
back.    He  is  waiting  for  a  reply. 

April.  (Takes  note  and  begins  to  read)  Is  Mr. 
Quail  there — ^himself?  (Maid  nods  ''yes.'')  Well, 
tell  him  I  have  another  engagement.  He  knows 
that !  Tell  Dudley — I  mean  Mr.  Quail — I  can't  pos- 
sibly see  him,  and  explain  again  I'm  going  to  sup- 
per with  the  author.  And — and — oh,  tell  him  to 
call  me  at  my  hotel  to-morrow — or  the  day  after — 
I  don't  care  ?  But  first  I  want  to  see  Bean !  (Maid 
starts  to  exit.)  Jean!  (Maid  stops  at  door.)  Has 
any  other  note  come  for  me  ? 

Maid.    No,  Mam'selle,  but 

April.    Jean,  will  you  go ! 

(Maid  exits.  April  goes  to  dressing-table;  picks 
up  a  bundle  of  notes,  telegrams,  etc.,  begins  to 
look  them  over  hastily.  While  this  is  happen- 
ing, we  hear  off  stage  the  voices  of  Maid  and 
Renard,  as  Renard  begins  excitedly  to  tell  her 


DEAR   ME  73 

about  the  great  success.  April  looks  up  an- 
noyed, then  crosses  swiftly  as  the  voice  con- 
tinues, and  speaks  sharply.) 


April.    Jean 

Maid.     (Off  stage)     Right  away,  Miss  Blair! 

(There  is  a  knock  at  the  door.) 

April.  (Tense;  turns)  Come  in!  (Renard, 
resplendent  in  evening  clothes,  comes  in.  He  is  full 
of  suppressed  emotion,  and  is  taking  off  his  white 
gloves.)    Oh,  you !     What  do  you  want? 

Renard.  What  do  I  want?  I  want  to  kiss  your 
hand !    And 

April.  (Holding  her  hand  out)  All  right,  Joe, 
kiss  it! 

Renard.  (As  he  takes  her  hand)  April,  what 
is  the  matter? 

April.  Joe,  don't  sympathize  with  me — I'll  go 
mad  or  something !    Leave  me  alone ! 

Renard.    You  want  me  to  go  away  ? 

April.  Yes!  (Renard  starts  for  door.)  No, 
Joe,  don't  go !  Stay !  Please  stay !  Only  don't  talk 
— ^and  don't  ask  questions! 

Renard.  (Mollified)  Oh !  So  the  nerves — they 
are  like  a  fringe! 

April.    Joe,  are  there  any  extras  out? 

Renard.  Extras?  Extras?  Oh,  April,  you  are 
a  funny  girl.  Do  you  think  that  they  get  out  a 
special  newspaper  for  your  opening  ?  No,  no !  Like 
the  other  poor  people,  you  will  have  to  wait  until  you 
get  to  the  party. 

April.    I'm  not  going  to  the  party ! 

Renard.  But  see  here,  April,  you  must  go  to 
this  party.  The  author  is  giving  it  for  you!  You 
want  to  see  him,  eh? 

April.  No  !  If  he  hasn't  enough  interest  to  come 
to  his  own  show — to  make  himself  known — I  don't 


74  DEAR   ME 

care  anything  about  him!     He  can  stay  a  mystery! 

Renard.    But  you  must! 

April.     No,  I'm  not  going!    Joe,  have  you 

(Knock  at  the  door.)  Come  in!  (Maid  enters,) 
Well,  Where's  Mr.  Bean? 

Maid.  They  telephoned  him — ^he  was  with  the 
author.     He  will  come  back  at  once ! 

April.  I  didn't  tell  you  to  telephone !  I  told  you 
to  get  him!    What's 

Renard.    April ! 

April.     I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean (Knock 

on  door.  Maid  exits,)  Come  in!  (Bean  enters; 
he  is  in  evening  clothes,  busy  and  harrassed.) 

Bean.  Well,  well,  now  that  you're  a  celebrity,  I 
suppose (He  is  in  bubbling  spirits,) 

April.    Have  you  been  out  in  front  all  evening? 

Bean.    Have  I? 

April.    In  the  balcony? 

Bean.    Both  of  them — and  they're  crazy  abcfut — 

April.  That  seat — ^you  know,  the  one  you  had 
to  "steal"  for  me 

Bean.    Sure ! 

April.     Find  out  if  anyone  occupied  it! 

(Renard  looks  up  and  begins  to  take  a  great  in- 
terest.) 

Bean.  Find  out?  Come,  April,  we'll  be  ringing 
up  on  the  act  in  ten  minutes.  You've  got  'em  going 
— ^and  if  we  make  'em  wait 

April.  They'll  wait  all  night  if  you  don't  find 
out  about  that  seat !  Ask  the  ushers,  or  the  people 
in  the  next  seats — anything — I  don't  care ! 

Bean.  Now,  don't  fret!  I'll  find  out— if  it'll  do 
any  good. 

April.  He  wasn't  there  in  the  first  act.  (Bean 
crosses  to  Renard,  ad  lib.)  Find  out  if  he's  been 
there  at  all — ^and  hurry ! 


DEAR   ME  75 

Bean.  I'm  hurrying!  Joe,  it  was  great!  (Ad 
lib.) 

April.  (Comes  to  door)  Manny — will  you  please 
go? 

Bean.    I'm  on  my  way !     (Exits.) 

Renard.  (Looks  at  his  watch,  listens  out  the 
door)    Well,  I  guess  I  go  pretty  quick,  too. 

April.     Please  stay!     Don't  leave  me! 

Renard.  No!  I  got  to  walk — the  nerves — ^they 
jump ! 

April.  (Crosses  to  table  and  sits,  begins  to  do 
something)    Could  anything  have  happened  to  him  ? 

Renard.     I  don't  know. 

April.  An  accident !  He  may  be  in  a  hospital ! 
Or — dead — ^Joe!  dead!     Maybe  the  police  .  .  , 

Renard.  Here,  here,  April — don't  take  on  like 
this! 

April.  I  can't  help  it!  Oh,  why  didn't  he  come 
— or  send  some  message  ? 

Renard.    Didn't  he  ? 

April.     Not  a  word! 

Renard.  That's  funny,  I  should  think  he  would. 
Why,  when  I  saw  him 

April.  Saw  him?  Oh,  Joe,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  instead  of  letting  me  worry  to  death? 

Renard.  Why,  I  thought  you  knew.  He  ap- 
plauded louder  than  anybody  else  in  the  house. 

April.    Edgar? 

Renard.     No.     Dudley! 

April.  Oh,  what  do  I  care  about  Dudley !  You 
knew  I  meant  Edgar  all  the  time !  He  didn't  send  a 
note — not  a  flower!  Everybody  remembered — even 
Mr.  Prentice,  but  not  Edgar!  What's  become  of 
him? 

Renard.  (Shrugs  his  shoulders)  How  should  I 
know?  I  haven't  seen  him  since  the  day  we  came 
back  from  Stamford. 

April.    Why  not? 


^(>  DEAR   ME 

Renard.  Too  busy!  How  can  I  be  successful, 
the  great  Joe  Renard,  and  have  time  to 

April.     Shame,  Joe ! 

Renard.    When  did  you  see  him  last? 

April.  (Subsides)  Why,  it  was  the  same  day — 
but  you — ^you  must  have  seen  him — ^you  live  with 
him! 

Renard.  You  bet  I've  seen  him — every  day.  I 
don't  forget!     I  stick  until  this  morning. 

April.    What  happened  this  morning? 

Renard.    He  go  away !    (Sits.) 

April.    Where  ? 

Renard.  Why  should  I  tell  you?  Why  this  sud- 
den interest  ? 

April.  Joe,  if  you  know,  tell  me!  Don't  let  me 
suffer ! 

Renard.  Suffer!  You  suffer!  What  about? 
What  do  you  care  where  he  is?  You're  famous — 
you'll  be  successful  and  rich! 

April.    Where  is  he? 

Renard.  You'll  have  a  hundred  men  ready  to  go 
to  hell  for  you  .  .  . 

April.    Oh !    Listen  to  that ! 

Renard.  Rich  men,  clever  men,  bad  men — and 
good  men!  Suffer?  You'll  forget — him  and  me — 
and  the  home — ^because  you  don't  care ! 

April.     I  do  care,  Joe — I  do ! 

Renard.  Then  you've  kept  it  pretty  well  hidden 
under  your  indifference. 

April.    Indifference?    What  do  you  mean? 

Renard.  Well,  then,  neglect!  Do  you  under- 
stand that? 

April.    I — neglect? 

Renard.  Yes,  neglect!  You've  tossed  him  off 
like  an  old  shoe ! 

April.     Does  he  think  that? 

Renard.  He  knows  it!  He  came  out  of  that 
Home  to  make  you  happy,  and  he  did! 


DEAR  ME  ^^ 

April.    Yes,  Joe,  he  did! 

Renard.     Until  you  passed  him,  and  then 

(Sits  on  sofa.) 

April.  Joe,  if  you  have  any  feeling  for  me — 
stop !  Just  tell  me  where  he  is !  (Leaning  her  head 
against  his.)  Have  a  little  pity — ^you're  not  the  old 
Joe! 

Renard.  And  you're  not  the  old  April!  She 
changed ! 

April.    Where  is  he? 

Renard.  Well,  he  tried  to  make  you  happy — and 
he  failed! 

April.    No,  he  didn't  fail — ^he  didn't  fail! 

Renard.  He  thinks  he  did,  so  he's  gone  back  to 
the  Home! 

April.  (Starting  up)  Back  to  the  Home? 
(Knock  at  the  door.)  Come  in.  (Bean  enters.) 
Well 

Bean.  The  seat's  empty !  Somebody  turned  the 
ticket  in  to  the  box  office  at  nine  o'clock. 

April.  (Walking  rapidly  to  R.  door)  I  knew  it ! 
Jean !  Jean !    Get  me  my  street  hat  and  coat ! 

Bean.    Street  hat?    Say,  what's 

Renard.    April !    What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

April.  There  is  a  train  leaving  Grand  Central 
at  half-past  ten — and  Fm  going  to  be  on  it !  (Exits 
into  room.    Renard  and  Bean  stare  at  each  other.) 

Bean.    Train?    My  God,  where  are  you  going? 

April.  (Off  stage)  You  ought  to  know !  Where 
you  both  came  from — the  Prentice  Home! 

Bean.  (To  RenardJ  In  the  name  of  God, 
what's  the  matter? 

Renard.  It's  my  fault — my  fault.  Get  Prentice, 
quick!  He's  the  only  man  who  can  stop  her! 
(Pushes  Bean  toward  the  door.  Bean  tries  to  ask 
a  question,)     Hurry!     (Pushes  Bean  out.  Turns,) 


78  DEAR   ME 

(April  enters,  dragging  a  cape  in  one  hand,  her  hat 
in  the  other,  Renard  hacks  against  the  door, 
April  stops  when  she  sees  she  cannot  pass  him,) 

April.     Don't  stop  me- 


Renard.    April,  think  a  minute ! 

April.    Stand  away  from  that  door — Renard ! 

Renard.  (Hurt)  Renard?  April,  the  curtain 
will  go  up  in  five  minutes! 

April.     In  five  minutes  I'll  be  on  my  way! 

Renard.    But  think  of  the  play ! 

April.    What  do  I  care  for  the  play  ? 

Renard.    Think  of  your  success ! 

April.  Success!  Do  you  call  this  success?  A 
moment  ago  you  said  I  wasn't  the  old  April.  You 
were  right !  But  I'm  the  old  April  now !  It's  hap- 
piness I  want,  and  it's  happiness  I  am  going  to  go 
after!     Get  out  of  my  way! 

Renard.  Wait,  April — and  I'll  tell  you !  Edgar 
Craig  is 

(April  flings  Renard  aside  and  pulls  the  door  open, 
then  steps  back  amazed.  Craig,  dressed  fault- 
lessly in  evening  clothes,  stands  in  the  doorway, 
Bean  peering  over  his  shoulder.  April  stands 
for  a  second  as  her  cape  and  hat  fall  unnoticed 
to  the  floor.  This  holds  until  April  changes 
and,  almost  childish,  says) 

April.     And  you  got  all  that  for  fifty  dollars! 

(Takes  him  in  from  the  head  to  foot,  then  almost 
timidly,  as  though  wanting  to  make  sure  he  is 
not  an  apparition,  goes  up  to  him,  almost  touches 
him,  then  holds  out  both  hands.  He  holds  out 
his  hands.  She  takes  them  and  pulls  him  into 
the  room.     They  advance  as  Renard  comes 


DEAR   ME  79 

down  behind  them.    April  and  Craig  are  too 
engrossed  in  each  other  to  notice.) 

Craig.     (Smiles  at  her)    Don't  you  think  you'd 

better  be  getting (Takes  out  watch  and  looks 

at  it  during  speech.) 

April.  (Puts  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and 
forces  him  down  into  seat)  Yes — Fll  hurry — I'll  be 
ready — ^they  won't  have  to  wait  for  me,  because 
everything  is  all  right — now!    (Turns  toward  table.) 

Craig.  (Starts  to  rise)  Then  perhaps  I'd  bet- 
ter  

April.  (Turns  and  sits  him  down  again)  Sit 
right  where  you  are!  I  don't  go  on  for  fifteen 
minutes,  and  I'm  all  ready  except  for  changing  my 
dress. 

Craig.    Well,  in  that  case 

April.  (Gazing  about  and  noticing  a  screen  in 
the  room)  We  can  fix  it  in  just  a  minute.  Now, 
you  sit  there  and  we  will  put  this — (Indicating  the 

screen) — right  like  this.    Nozi} (Goes  to  table, 

gets  busy,  Maid  adjusting  the  gown.)  I  can't  un- 
derstand why  they  don't  let  the  Fifth  Avenue  busses 
run  through  the  Park!  But  of  course  they'd  have 
to  trim  so  many  of  the  trees  or  make  everybody  ride 
inside.  But  it  would  be  wonderful !  Don't  you  think 
— Edgar  ?  I  was  thinking  that  we  ought  to  go  to  the 
seashore  thi^  next  summer 

Craig.  Well,  you  are  the  most  remarkable  girl  I 
ever  met  in  all  my  life !  If  this  were  my  opening,  I 
certainly  wouldn't  be  able  to  talk  about  busses  and 
seashores ! 

April.     Well,  what  can  we  talk  about? 

Craig.     You!    You're  a  sensation — absolutely! 

April.    How  do  you  know? 

Craig.  Why,  I  was  the  first  one  in  the  theatre 
to-night ! 

April.     (With  sudden  exasperation)     Oh,  you 


8o  DEAR   ME 

make  me  so — so  exasperated!    Why  didn't  you  sit 

in  the  seat  I  gave  you  instead  of Where  did 

you  sit? 

Craig.  Some  friends  coaxed  me  into  a  box. 
April.  Which  one — the  one  with  three  ladies  and 
the  two  men?  (Craig  nods.)  Yes — I  suppose  that 
was  much  nicer;  but  just  the  same,  I  wish  you  had 
taken  the  seat  I  gave  you.  Then  I  wouldn't  have 
become  so  temperamental. 

Craig.    You — temperamental  ? 
April.     Yes.     It's  wonderful — ^gets  you  anything 
you  want! 

Craig.    And  what,  might  I  ask,  did  you  so  specially 
want? 

April.     Edgar,  I  wish  you'd  give  up  trying  to 

understand  me,  and'^just 

Craig.    Just  what? 

April.     Just  think  I'm  the  most 

Craig.     Wonderful  girl  in  the  world! 
April.    That's  it — ^but  I  don't  want  you  to  say  it 
just  now! 

Craig.     All  right — but  after  the  theatre  to-night. 
April.    (Slumps  in  her  chair)    Now  I'm  unhappy 
again ! 

Craig.     What's  wrong  now  ? 

April.    Well,  to-night  I  have  to  go (Stops 

as  she  has  an  idea.)     Edgar,  do  something  for  me  ? 
Craig.     Anything !  * 

April.     Remember  how  we  used  to  go  out  late 
some  nights  and  go  to  Childs? 

Edgar.  Sort  of  good  old  days'  idea,  eh? 
April.  Yes!  Now,  after  the  show,  meet  me 
down  at  the  corner — don't  wait  at  the  stage  door 
because  I'm  not  coming  out  that  way — and  well  go 
to  Childs — ^just  you  and  I.  (Knock  on  the  door.) 
Yes! 

Bean.    Curtain's  up,  April ! 
April.    Call  me  in  time,  Manny. 


DEAR   ME  8i 

Bean.    All  right! 

Craig.  But,  April,  you're  going  to  a  party! 
(April  looks  at  him — how  did  he  know?  Quickly) 
So — Joe  said! 

April.  Given  by  the  author.  (Makes  a  grimace,) 
Whom  I  don't  know  and  don't  care  to  know. 

Craig.     Don't  say  that! 

April.  I  can  see  him  now!  I  suppose  he'll  pat 
me  on  the  cheek  and  call  me  "little  girl,"  and  tell  me 
how  lucky  I  am  to  have  him  notice  me.  (Rises  and 
mimics  him.)  But  what  do  I  care?  You  liked  me, 
didn't  you? 

Craig.    Like  you! 

April.    And  I  pleased  you,  didn't  I  ?    Tell  me ! 

Craig.    You  did! 

April.  Then  what  do  I  care  what  the  author  says ! 
And  we're  going  to  Childs — we're  going  to  Childs ! 

Craig.     No!    You  must  go  to  the  party! 

April.     I  won't! 

Craig.    Haven't  you  any  curiosity? 

April.  Yes!  I  want  to  see  what  Childs  is  like 
— on  an  opening  night ! 

Craig.    But 


April. 

Childs ! 

Craig. 

Now,  listen ! 

April. 

Childs! 

Craig. 

But  suppose 

April. 

Childs! 

Craig. 

Wait  a  minute!     Suppose  I  couldn't  go 

to  Childs- 

—to-night? 

April. 

I  understand!     The  third  woman  in  the 

box! 

Craig. 

No! 

April. 

I  see !    Somebqjdy  else — some  other  lady ! 

Craig. 

Well,  since  you  must  know — I'm  going 

to  that  party ! 

April. 

You !    Oh,.  Edgar !    But  how  ? 

Craig.     In  my  little  old  fifty-dollar  suit!     I've 


82  DEAR   ME 

never  told  you,  but  the  author  is  one  of  my  friends. 
I  hope  you  will  like  him ;  he  is  a  very  clever  chap, 
and  Tm  very  fond  of  him! 

April.  Isn't  that  wonderful!  All  right,  I'll  go 
to  this  party,  on  one  condition — ^you  must  take  me! 

Craig.    But  Joe's  going  to  do  that ! 

April.     I  want  to  go  with  you ! 

Craig.    No,  you  must  go  with  Joe ! 

April.  Must  If  (Craig  nods.)  Well,  then, 
that's  settled !  But  just  the  same,  you're  not  keeping 
your  promise! 

Cra.ig.  Promise — what  promise  ?  I've  kept  every 
promise  I  ever  made  you,  and  every  one  I've  made  to 
myself  about  you! 

April.  I  know  you've  done  all  that,  and  I'm  very, 
very  happy !  But  I  wasn't  a  while  ago.  To-night  I 
wrote  me — a  new  me — a  letter.  Want  to  read  it? 
I  was  going  to  mail  it  after  the  show. 

Craig.  May  I  ?  (Takes  letter  and  reads)  "Dear 
Me:  Of  course  I  wish  you  every  success  to-night; 
but  I  ask  you,  as  me  to  myself,  do  you  deserve  it? 
You're  selfish,  April  Blair,  selfish!  P.  S. — 'He  trav- 
els 'fastest  who  travels  alone,'  but  I  don't  want  to 
travel  alone — I'm  not  in  a  hurry.  Disgustedly, 
Myself."     (April  tears  up  letter.)     Don't  do  that! 

April.  That's  one  letter  I'll  never  keep  because 
ju^t  now  I'm  disgustedly  happy ! 

Craig.    Well,  that's  something! 

April.    Haven't  you  been  happy? 

Craig.    Why,  yes,  of  course  I  have ! 

April.  Look  up  at  me,  Edgar.  (Lifts  his  face,) 
You  aren't  happy! 

Craig.  Oh,  yes,  I  am,  April,  in  a  way !  The  way 
of  a  million  others.  You  see  them  on  the  streets,  or 
in  their  automobiles,  or  the  subway.  They  have 
everything  the  other  fellow  has,  but  they've  just 
missed!    I'm  like  that — I've  just  missed ! 


DEAR   ME  83 

April.  Couldn't  you  tell  Doctor  Blair  what  you've 
missed  ? 

Craig.    April ! 

April.  (Puts  out  her  hands)  I  love  you,  Edgar 
Craig ! 

Craig.  (Rises,  electrified,  as  he  sees  in  her  eyes 
that  she  loves  him.  Then  he  pushes  her  hands  back,) 
Say  that  again. 

April.     I  love  you! 

Craig.    No — all  of  it! 

April.    I  love  you,  Edgar  Craig! 

(Craig  is  about  to  take  her  in  his  amis  when  Bean 
enters.) 

Bean.  Say,  if  you're  not  on  there  in  a  minute 
you'll  make  a  stage  wait. 

Craig.  (Without  releasing  April ^  Let  me  worry 
about  that! 

Bean.      But,    Mr.    Craig (Looks   at   him, 

amazed.) 

Craig.  And  if  you  don't  get  out  of  here  I'll  fire 
you!     (Bean  bolts.)     Darling! 


CURTAIN 


SCENE   II 

The  reception-hall  of  Edgar  Prentice's  apartment 
in  East  Sixtieth  Street, 

Entrance  dozmt  l.  leading  to  the  private  elevator  en- 
trance; back  c.  a  wide  doorway  to  dining-room, 
with  doors.  On  the  r.  high  window,  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  to  give  somewhat  the  effect  of  a  studio 
apartment.  The  furnishings  are  of  the  finest, 
not  extravagant,  but  those  of  a  bachelor  whose 
taste  is  excellent. 

At  Rise:  The  table  is  set  and  brilliantly  lighted; 
an  overhead  dome  light,  also  the  reception-hall 
is  well  lighted.  Everything  is  cheery  and  ready 
for  the  party.  In  the  room  on  back  wall  l.  is 
the  portrait  of  Amos  Prentice  which  we  saw 
over  the  fireplace  at  the  Home.  The  floral  deco- 
rations are  generous  and  are  of  geraniums. 

Large  library  desk  l.,  imfh  paper  and  writing  ma- 
terials. Photo  of  Prentice  on  r.  end  of  desk. 
Chair  at  l.  and  back.  Armchair  r.  on  stage. 
Piano  up  back  at  r.  Consol  table  r.  with  box  of 
geraniums  from  Act  I. 

As  lights  go  up,  Craig  and  Clarence  are  at  the 
table,  Clarence  making  a  finishing  touch  here 
and  there.  Craig  looks  up  at  the  portrait, 
straightens  it,  then  turns.) 

Craig.     Clarence,  I  think  I  heard  the  elevator 
door. 

(Clarence  comes  out  of  dining-room,  exits  r. 
Craig  comes  dozmt  into  the  room.  Peck  and 
Bean  stick  their  heads  in  from  hall.) 

84 


?5, 


^ 


< 


DEAR   ME  85 

Bean.    May  we  come  in — am  I  forgiven? 
Craig.     Come  in — ^glad  to  see  you! 

(Peck  and  Bean,  in  fine  evening  clothes,  enter. 
Bus.  shaking  hands,  etc.,  during  the  following.) 

Bean.    Is  she  here  yet — are  we  in  time? 

Craig.  Plenty  of  time,  gentlemen!  Will  you 
have  a  slight  sniffer? 

Peck.  Not  for  me.  What  an  exquisite  room, 
Edgar.  I  could  get  inspiration  here.  (Lodks  around 
room.) 

Craig.  Help  yourself — take  all  the  inspiration 
you  want !     And  how  is  the  rising  architect  ? 

Peck.  Wonderful!  Frightfully  busy,  though! 
Didn't  know  how  I  was  going  to  make  it  to-night, 
but  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  if  Yonkers  never  got 
a  new  City  Hall ! 

Craig.     City  Hall? 

Peck.  Certainly!  You  must  have  heard.  But 
tell  me  about  April ! 

Bean.  She  was  to-night  what  her  name  implies — 
a  breath  of  Spring !  And  yet,  as  I  sat  and  watched 
her,  she  took  me  back  to  the  Home. 

Peck.  Well,  Fm  glad  you  went  alone !  (Closing 
of  elevator  can  be  heard.)  IVe  never  forgotten  what 
she  said.    Remember,  Craig  and  Bean? 

Bean.     If  I  ever  forget — I'll  fail  again! 

Peck.  "God  or  somebody  put  you  on  earth  to  do 
something,  but  you  cheated  him  and  didn't  do  it." 

(Lawton  and  Turner  enter,) 

Bean.  Why,  even  now  I  blush  when  I  remem- 
ber it. 

Lawton.    Hello,  boys,  are  we  tardy? 

Craig.  Lawton!  And  Turner — congratulations 
on  your  new  book!     This  is  wonderful — and  look- 


86  DEAR   ME 

ing  like  a  million  dollars!  (Shakes  hands,  as  do 
Bean  and  Peck.  Bean  grabs  onto  Turner  and 
they  start  away,) 

Peck.  I've  just  finished  reading  your  book.  My 
word,  Turner,  I  haven't  ridden  in  the  subway  for 
the  last  month  but  what  every  shop-girl  has  had  a 
copy! 

Craig.  (Talking  with  Lawton  and  Peckj  It's  a 
fine  book,  but  I  must  say,  Turner,  you  did  us  a  mean 
trick ! 

Bean.    Putting  us  all  in  a  book  that  way ! 

Turner.  I  have  hit  the  happy  recipe  for  a  suc- 
cessful novel — make  fun  of  your  friends ! 

Craig.  Yes,  but  have  you  seen  Oglevie  since  the 
book  was  published? 

Turner.  Good  Lord,  no!  Not  to  speak  to !  But 
I've  ducked  into  several  basements  when  I  saw  him 
coming. 

Craig.  (To  LawtonJ  We  may  have  some  fire- 
works, then,  when  Oglevie  arrives  .  .  . 

Lawton.  It  will  make  us  all  homesick  if  those 
two  get  at  it.  But  let  me  congratulate  you,  man. 
It  was  wonderful!  And  April!  She  is  superb! 
Oh,  when  I  think  how  she  has  gotten  back  at  us — 
many  people  have  a  theory  about  life,  but  few  can 
prove  it! 

Craig.  Oh,  I  don't  know — ^you  seem  to  be  prov- 
ing her  theory — to  judge  from  the  crowd  I  saw 
around  the  statue  the  other  day. 

Lawton.  Did  you  read  what  the  critics  had  to 
say? 

Craig.    I  certainly  did,  and  I  congratulate  you !, 

Oglevie.  (Off  stage)  Wait  here,  and  I  shall  re- 
turn anon.  (Oglevie  enters,  looks  all  around,  sees 
everybody  but  Turner.  He  is  the  soul  of  affluence 
and  pomposity.  To  Lawton  and  others)  Ah,  gen- 
tlemen, what  a  climax  to  a  wonderful  evening! 
(Turning    to    Craigj      Coming    from    a    cheerful 


DEAR   ME  87 

theatre — and  now  to  find  myself  surrounded  by  the 
warmth  and  prosperity  of  my  intimates  who  have 
shared  happy  days  with  all  thoughts  of  the  past 
driven  from  our  memory,  and  now (Sees  Tur- 
ner  crouching    behind    the   rest.)      And   now 

(Walks  over  toward  Turner  J 

Turner.    Hello,  Ogie! 

Oglevie.     Not  so  many  days  ago  I  read  a  book, 

written  by  one  Turner (He  looks  toward  the 

door.)  In  it  I  discovered  a  character — fat,  puffy,  a 
veritable  buffoon — in  which  my  friends  detected  a 
vulgar  attempt  to  caricature  none  other  than  myself. 

Craig.  Why,  you  don't  mean  the  bold  duffer  in 
Turner's  book?  Why,  you  couldn't  suppose  that 
was  meant  to  be  you 

Oglevie.  No,  indeed.  I — could  see  nothing  simi- 
lar! 

Craig.     But  there,  what's  a  book  among  cronies ! 

Oglevie.  Quite  right!  Come  to  my  arms.  Tur- 
ner!     I'm    glad    to    see    you — prospering    so 

(Starts  over  to  the  men,  scattering  cheers  and  ad 
lib.  his  greetings.    Craig  looks  at  his  watch.) 

Peck.  But,  Ogkvie,  tell  us  about  yourself — ^we 
have  had  our  little  meetings,  Craig  and  the  rest  of 
us  .  .  . 

Lawton.  How  do  you  come  by  this  look  of  pros- 
perity— what  success  has  befallen  you? 

Craig.    Pardon  me,  just  a  moment! 

Oglevie.    Certainly,  dear  fellow.     (Craig  exits.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Off  stage)  Oh,  Mr.  Prentice! 
Is  April,  the  dear  little  thing,  here  yet  ? 

Peck.    I  knew  it !    I  can  never  forget  that  voice ! 

Lawton.    Mrs.  Carney!    What's  she  doing  here? 

Turner.    The  skeleton  of  the  feast! 

Bean.     It's  an  ambush!     (They  all  talk  ad  lib.) 

Oglevie.  Cease!  Gentlemen!  Remember,  we 
are  guests! 

Lawton.    That  won't  be  any  protection ! 


88  DEAR   ME 

Oglevie.  Stop,  I  tell  you!  (Mrs.  Carney  en- 
ters. Oglevie  crosses  to  her  and  in  honeyed  man- 
ner takes  her  hand  and  grandly  turns  to  the  others.) 
Gentlemen — my  wife!  (Turner  sits  in  chair  r.c. 
All  stand,  embarrassed  and  uncertain.) 

Mrs.  Carney.  Why,  Turner — Peck — Lawton! 
Manny !    How  do  you  do  ? 

Bean.     How  do  you  do,  Rosie! 

Mrs.  Carney.  This  is  amazing!  How  well  you 
all  look!     (All  gather  around  her  ad  lib.) 

Lawton.  (Crossing  to  her)  No,  Mrs.  Carney, 
ah,  hm!    Mrs.  C.  Oglevie^ — ^how  well  you  look  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Carney.    Thank  you !     (Crosses  ad  lib.) 

Lawton.  Oglevie,  you  always  were  a  lucky  dog! 
(Coughs,  shakes  hands.) 

(Enter  Craig,  also  Clarence,  who  serves  cocktails 
and  exits.) 

Oglevie.  That's  right,  Lawton,  cough.  Now  I 
feel  perfectly  at  home! 

Mrs.  Carney.    Wilbur  will  have  his  little  joke! 

Oglevie.    (With  much  affection)    Moonbeam! 

Craig.  Before  we  have  supper,  I'd  like  to  say 
just  a  word,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  want  you  to  drink 
a  toast — to  that  old  man — (Points  to  portrait) — and 
I'm  going  to  explain  how  I'd  like  to  have  you  feel 
when  you  drink  it.  He  died  unhappy  because  I  was 
a  fool — ^because  I  failed  in  a  boyish  ambition  and 
hid  away  to  protect  my  pride.  To  my  memory  he 
founded  the  Home,  and  in  his  memory  I  have  des- 
troyed it,  with  the  help  of  April.  I  don't  know 
whether  he  knows  anything  about  what  we've  done, 
but  if  he  does  I  want  you  all  to  hope  it  quiets  his 
soul.  To  my  Daddy!  (They  all  drink,  Clarence 
enters.) 

Clarence.  Mr.  Prentice,  Miss  April  and  Mr. 
Joe  J 


DEAR    ME  89 

Craig.  She  doesn't  know  you  are  all  here — I  want 
to  surprise  her! 

Mrs.  Carney.  Wasn't  she  wonderful  to-night? 
But  then,  she  always  did  everything  right ! 

Craig.  Yes,  yes !  I  want  you  all  to  hide  in  that 
room,  and  we'll  surprise  her !  (All  together  in  door- 
way and  talk.)  Now,  keep  quiet,  or  it  won't  be  any 
surprise  at  all.     Ssh ! 

Oglevie.    And,  Lawton,  don't  cough! 

(Craig  goes  in  and  closes  door  behind  him.  Enter 
April  and  Renard.  She  looks  at  room,  crosses 
and  sits  at  r.,  then  sees  geraniums,  starts  back  l., 
sees  picture  over  door  c.,  then  picture  on  table, 
picks  it  up,  looks  at  both,  then  sits  and  writes, 
reading  same  as  she  writesl) 

April. 
"Dear  Me  : 

"I  lake  my  pen  in  hand  to  ask  you  how  you  could 
be  so  stupid,  so  blind  and  so  selfish. 

"Sadly, 

"Just  Me." 

"P.  S.  I  want  to  thank  the  author  for  all  he  has 
done  for  me !"    (Lawton  coughs  off  stage.) 

Oglevie.     (Off  stage)    Shut  up! 

Craig.     (Off  stage)     Ssh ! 

(April  goes  to  door;  as  she  gets  there  the  door  is 
opened.  Craig  enters,  goes  down  l.  Others 
enter  and  take  April  down  stage  l.  and  to  c. 
Ad  lib.  Oglevie  comes  down  c.  Mrs.  Car- 
ney down  R.c.    April  has  her  back  to  them.) 

Oglevie.     April ! 

April.    Why,  Mr.  Oglevie! 

Oglevie.    April — ^my  wife!    (April  turns  R.) 


90  DEAR   ME 

Mrs.  Carney.  (Takes  April  in  her  arms)  Oh, 
April! 

(April  almost  collapses.     All  talk  ad  lib.     Craig 
takes  April  r.^  kisses  her.    Clarence  enters.) 

Clarence.  Supper  is  served!  (All  cross  and 
sit  at  table.) 

Oglevie.  (After  all  are  seated)  I  want  my 
coffee! 

Mrs.  Carney.  All  right,  angel,  you'll  get  your 
coffee!  (Song  starts,  piano.)  Listen — why,  that's 
the  song  April  sang  to-night.  Sing  it  again,  won't 
you,  dearie  ? 

Oglevie.    Yes,  won't  you,  dearie? 

All.    Yes,  dearie ! 

(April  sings.) 
FINIS 


BILLETED. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts,  hf  F.  Tennison  Jesse  and  H.  Harwood.  4 
males,  S  females.  ,  One  easy  interior  scen'i.  A  chartning  comedy, 
constructed  with  uncommon  skill,  and  abounds  with  clever  lines. 
Margaret  Anglin's  brT  s»cces».  Amateurs  will  find  this  comedy  easy 
to  produce  and  poptjiar  witk  all  audieneefi.  Price,  69  Cents. 

NOTHING  BUT  THE  TRUTH. 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males,  C  females. 
Costumes,  modern.     Two  interior  scenes.     Plays  2J^   hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth — even  for  twenty-four  hours? 
It  is— at  least  Bob  iennett,  the  hero  of  "Nothing  But  the  Truth," 
accomplished  the  feat.  The  bet  he  made  with  his  business  partners, 
and  the  trouble  he  f ot  into — with  his  partners,  his  friends,  and  his 
fiancee — this  is  the  subject  of  William  Collier's  tremendous  comedy 
hit.  "Nothing  But  the  Truth'*  can  be  Whole-heartedly  recommended 
as  one  of  the  most  sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  that  this 
country  c^  boast.  Price,  60  Cents. 

IN  WALKED  JIMMY. 

A  comedy  in  4  acts,  by  Minnie  Z.  Jaffa.  10  males,  2  females  (al- 
though any  number  of  males  and  females  may  be  used  as  clerks, 
etc.).  Two  interior  scenes.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2^  hours. 
The  thing  into  which  Jimmy  walked  was  a  broken-down  shoe  factory, 
when  the  clerks  had  all  been  fired,  and  when  the  proprietor  was  in 
serious  contemplation  of   suicide. 

Jimmy,  nothing  else  but  plain  Jimmy,  would  have  been  a  mysterious 
figure  had  it  not  been  for  his  matter-of-fact  manner,  his  smile  and 
his  everlasting  humanness.  He  put  the  shoe  business  on  its  feet,  won 
the  heart  of  the  girl  clerk,  saved  her  erring  brother  from  jail,  escaped 
that  place  as  a  permanent  boarding  house  himself,  and  foiled  the 
villain. 

Clean,  wholesome  comedy  with  just  a  touch  of  human  nature,  just 
a  dash  of  exeitement  and  more  than  a  little  bit  of  true  philosophy 
make  "In  "Walked  Jimmy"  one  of  the  most  delightful  of  plays. 
Jimmy  is  full  of  the  religion  of  life,  the  religion  of  happiness  and 
the  religion  of  helpfulness,  and  he  so  permeates  the  atmosphere  with 
his  "religion"  that  everyone  is  happy.  The  spirit  of  optimism,  good 
cheer,  and  hearty  laughter  dominates  the  play.  There  is  not  a  dull 
moment  in  any  of  the  four  acts.     We  strongly  recommend  it. 

Price,  60  Cents. 

MARTHA   BY-THE-DAY. 

An  optimistic  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmann,  auther 
©f  the  "Martha"  stories.  5  males,  S  females.  Three  interior  scenes. 
Costumes  modern.     Plays  25-^   hours. 

It  is  akogether  a  gentle  thiflg,  this  play.  It  is  full  of  quaint  hu- 
mor, old-fashioned,  homely  sentiment,  the  kind  that  people  who  see 
the  play  will   recall  and   chuckle   over  to-morrow  and   the  next   day. 

Miss  Lippmann  has  herself  adapted  her  very  successful  book  for 
stage  service,  and  in  doing  this  has  selected  from  her  novel  the  most 
telling  incidents,  infectious  comedy  and  homely  sent'ment  for  the 
play,  and  the  result  is  thoroughly  delightful.  Price,  60  Cents. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  Wei  t  3Sth  Street.  New  York  City 

NfV  Md  ExplSctt  Bsscriptive  Catilogiif  MatM  fm  w  Kt^mi 


rHE  REJUVENATION  OF  AUNT  MARY. 

The  famous  comedy  in  three  acts,  by  Anne  Warner.  7  males,  6 
females.    Three  interior  scenes.    Costumes  modern.     Plays  2%  hours. 

This  is  a  genuinely  funny  comedy  with  splendid  parts  for  "Aunt 
Mary,"  "Jack,'*  her  lively  nephew;  "Lucinda,"  a  New  England  an- 
cient maid  of  all  work;  "Jack's**  three  chums;  th©  Girl  "Jack"  love»; 
"Joshua,"  Aunt  Mary's  hired  man,  etc. 

"Aunt  Mary"  was  played  by  May  Robson  in  New  York  and  on  tour 
for  over  two  years,  and  it  is  sure  to  be  a  big  success  wherever  pro- 
duced*   We  Strongly  recommend  it  Pri<5c,  60  Cents. 


MRS.  BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A  pleasing"  comedy,  in  three  acts,  by  Harry  James  Smith,  author  of 
**The  Tailor-Made  Man."  6  males,  6  females.  One  interior  so<MM. 
Costumes  modern.     Plays  2%  hours. 

Mr.  Smith  .chose  for  his  initial  comedy  the  complications  arising 
from  the  endeavors  of  a  social  climber  to  land  herself  in  the  altitude 
.peopled  by  hyphenated  names — a  theme  permitting  innumerable  com- 
1  plications,  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  writer. 

This  most  successful  comedy  was  toured  for  several  seasons  by  Mrs. 
Fiske  with  enormous  success.  Price,  60  Cefttt. 


MRS.  TEMPLE'S  TELEGRAM. 

A  most  successful  farce  in  three  acts,  by  Frank  Wyatt  and  WM* 
Ham  Morris.  5  males,  4  females.  One  interior  scene  stands  throu^- 
©Ut  the  three  acts.     Costumes  modem.     Plays  2J^  hours. 

"Mrs.  Temple's  Telegram"  is  a  sprightly  farce  in  which  there  is 
an  abundance  of  fun  without  any  taint  of  impropriety  or  any  ele- 
ment of  offence.  As  noticed  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "Oh,  what  a 
tangled  web   we  weave  when  first  we  practice  to  deceive," 

There  is  not  a  dull  moment  in  the  entire  farce,  and  from  the  time 
the  curtain  rises  until  it  makes  the  final  drop  the  fun  is  fast  and 
furious.    A  very  exceptional  farce.  I!rice,  60  Cents. 


THE  NEW  CO-ED. 

A  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Marie  Doran,  author  of  "Tempest  and 
Sunshine,"  etc.  Characters,  4  males,  7  females,  though  any  number 
ci  boys  and  girls  can  be  introduced  in  the  action  of  the  play.  One 
interior  and  one  exterior  scene,  but  can  be  easily  played  in  one  inte- 
rior scene.     Costumes  modern.     Time,  about  2  hours. 

The  theme  of  this  play  is  the  coming  of  a  new  student  to  the  col- 
lege, her  reception  by  the  scholars,  her  trials  and  final  triumph. 

There  are  three  especially  good  girls*  parts,  Letty,  Madge  and 
Estelle,  but  the  others  have  plenty  to  do.  "Punch"  Doolittle  and 
George  Washington  Watts,  a  gentleman  of  color,  are  two  particularly 

Eood   comedy  characters.     We   can    strongly    recommend    "The  New 
!o-Ed"  to  hiz}*  schools  and  amateurs.  R^ce,  30  Cefitfl. 

(The  Above  Are  Subject  to   Royalty  When   Producedl 
SAMUEL  FRENCH,  28-30  West  38th  Street,  New  York  City 

nm  and  Explicit  Otioriiirjvi  Catai«|iii  MUM  fm  M  fiMnH 


The  Gharm  School 

A  fascinating  comedy  in  three  acts  by  Alice  Duer  ivfill- 
^.r  and  Robert  Milton.  6  males,  10  females,  (May  be 
played  by  5  males  aAid  8  females).  Any  number  of  school 
g^lrls  may  be  used  in  the  ensembles.  Scenes,  two  inter- 
iors.     Costumes,    modern.      Plays    2h^    hours. 

The  story  of  "The  Charm  School"  is  familiar  to  Mrs. 
Miller's  readers.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  a  hand- 
some young  automobile  salesman  scarcely  out  of  his 
'teens  who,  upon  inheriting-  a  girl's  boarding  school  from 
a  maiden  aunt,  insists  on  running  it  himself,  according  to 
his  own  ideas,  chief  of  which  is,  by  the  way,  that  the 
dominant  feature  in  the  education  of  the  young  girl  of 
today    should    be   CHARM. 

The  situations  that  arise  are  teeming  with  humor — 
clean,  wholesome  humor.  In  the  end  the  young  man 
gives  up  the  school  and  promises  to  wait  until  the  most 
precocious  of  his   pupils   reaches  a   marriageable  age. 

"The  Charm  School"  has  the  freshness  of  youth,  the 
inspiration  of  an  extravagant  but  novel  idea,  the  charm 
of  originality,  and  the  promise  of  wholesome,  sanely 
amusing,  pleasant  entertainment.  We  strongly  recom- 
mend  It   for   high   school    production. 

"The  Charm  School"  was  first  produced  at  the  Bijou 
Theatre,  New  York,  and  then  toured  the  country.  Two 
companies  are  now  playing  it  in  England.    Price,  75  cents. 

Daddy  Long-Legs 

A  charming  comedy  in  four  acts,  by  Jean  Webster. 
The  full  cast  calls  for  6  males,  7  females  and  6  orphans, 
but  the  play,  by  the  easy  doubling  of  some  of  the  char- 
acters may  be  played  by  4  males,  4  females  and  three 
orphans.  The  orphans  appear  only  in  tire  first  act  and 
may  be  played  by  small  girls  of  any  age.  Four  easy 
interior   scenes.     Costumes   modern.      Plays    2*^    hours. 

The  New  York  Times  reviewer,  on  the  morning  fol- 
lowing the  Broadway  produetion,  wrote  the  following 
comment: 

"If  you  will  take  your  pencil  and  write  down,  oob  be- 
low the  other,  the  words  delightful,  charming,  swe^t, 
beautiful  and  entertaining,  and  then  draw  a  line  and 
add  them  up,  the  answer  will  be  *Daddy  Long-Legs/ 
To  that  result  you  might  even  add  brilliant,  pathetic 
and  humorous,  but  the  answer  even  then  would  be  just 
what  It  was  before — the  play  which  Miss  Jean  Webster 
has  ma6i6  from  her  book,  'Daddy  L^ong-Liegs,*  and  which 
was  presented  at  the  Gaiety  last  night.  To  attempt  to 
describe  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  'Daddy  Long-Liegs* 
would  be  like  attempting  to  describe  the  first  breath  of 
Spring  after  an  exceedingly  tiresome  and  hard   Winter." 

"Daddy  Ltong-Legs*'  enjoyed  a  two-years'  run  in  New 
York  and  was  then  toured  for  ov^r  three  years,  and  is 
now  published   in  play  form   for   the  first   time. 

Price,   75    cents. 

(The  AboT«!  Are  Subjeet  to  Royalty  When  Produced) 

«AJMPirEIi  FREIN^CH.  28-30  West  38th  Street,  IVew  York  CItjr 
]VeT?r  nnd  Bxplfcit  Desorlptlve  Cataloccue  Mailed     /^, 
Free   on    Reqneiit  ^ 


FRENCH S 

Standard  Library  Edition 

Includes  Plays  by 


Clyde  Pitch 

Vmikm  Gillette 

Augustus  Thomas 

George  Broadhurst 

Bdward  E.  Kidder 

Percy  MacKaye 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 

Loiik  N.  Parker 

R.  C.  Carton 

Alfred  Sutro 

Richard  Harding  Davis 

Sir  Arthur  W.  Pinero 

Anthony  Hope 

Oscar  Wilde 

Haddon  Chambers 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Cosmo  Gordon  Lennox 

H.  V.  Esmond 

Mark  Swan 

Grace  L.  Funiiss 

Marguerite  M  erring  ton 

Hermann  Sudermann 

Rida  Johnson  Young 

Arthur  Law 

Rachel  Crothers 

Martha  Morton 

H.  A.  Du  Souchct 


Booth  Tarkington 
J.  Hartley  Manners 
James  Forbes 
James  Montgomery 
Wm.  C.  de  MiUc 
Roi  Cooper  Megrue 
Edward  E.  Rose 
Israel  Zangwiii 
Henry  Bernstein 
Harold  Brighouse 
C banning  Pollock 
Harry  Durant 
Winchell  Smith 
Margaret  Mayo 
Edward  Pcple 
A.  E.  W.  Mason 
Charles  Klein 
Henry  Arthur  Jones 
A.  E.  Thomas 
Fred.  BaUard 
Cyril  Harcourt 
C<ir lisle  Moore 
Ernest  Denny 
Laurence  Housman 
Harry  James  Smith 
Edgar  Selwyn 
Augustxn  McHugh 
Robert  Hou&um 
Charles  Kenyon 
C.  M.  S.  McLdian 


W.  W.  Jacobs 

Madeleine    Lucette    Ryley 

French's  International  Copyrighted  Edition  con- 
tains plays,  comedies  and  farces  of  international 
reputation;  also  recent  professional  successes  by 
famous  American  and  English  Authors. 
Send  a  four-cent  stamp  for  our  new  catalogue 
describing  thousands  of  plays, 

SAMUEL    FRENCH 

Oldest  Play  Publisher  in  the  World 
28-30  West  38th  Street,        NEW  YORK  CITY 


